Sex, drugs, tools in my toolbox used to get closer to the truth

I want to write about my sex life, once more than a bit active, now with the passage of the years, far less so as well as drug use from September 2011 to December 2016. I want to describe how I believe the CIA, FSB and sister national security services used sex, drugs and psy-ops to push me far down that sexual and closely related narcotics rabbit hole. While in Russia I began to frequent clandestine massage parlors. These were located in private people’s apartments and advertised in local newspapers. For 2000 rubles, sometimes 1500 or 3000 or about $65 one could buy the services of a young lady, sometimes two to give me a full body oil massage and finish me off with a hand job. I felt this kept me from crossing the line of actually having classical penetrative sex, and keeping me somewhat with a belief that this wasn’t cheating, but was dealing with an primal instinct, much as one going to McDonald’s deals with hunger. It was wonderful stepping into a strange apartment and having 4 to 8 young women, sometimes teens, always of legal age, paraded out in front of me in various stages of undress, sometimes topless, sometimes fully nude. I would start the conversation with a few question as well as declaring that I was an American in Russia which always brought forward interest on the part of the girls. The first question, from what city are you? Usually the further away and the smaller the city, the better the sex as I would learn over time. These girls were disavantaged, that is to say poor, and desperate from cities where the opportunities for a decent salary were nonexistent. In time I slipped down the slippery slope and began to have penetrative classical sex, this first happened on a street called Releeva in downtown Saint Petersburg. I don’t recall how I took that decision now, but recall the sex and related or gas meter as being mind blowing. What was it about immediately fucking a girl you just met, a stranger, and yet a sex professional? And always with a condom. And so I went on for years from 1998 to 2003, from Saint Petersburg to Moscow and back, even engaging the most easily organic prostitute of my life in Cheropovets, Russia for the rubles equivalent of $14. God she was excited when my cock was in her mouth or better still, pushy, it didn’t seem to matter which. That was the one I should have married in retrospect. I had married a prostitute, Svetlana Chuloshnikova of the former closed Soviet city of Nijniy Novgorod, causing me to abandon my fist wife Christine and our first marriage. That was July 1996 as I quit American upwardly mobile middle class life for the adventure of a lifetime, moved to Sierra, opened a mobile phone company in Russia of the 1990s, and moved in with aforementioned Svetlana, where our sex life was of paramount importance and included a few sessions of three-way sex with other women. One time was with Irina, a prostitute colleague from Nijniy Novgorod who visited us in Saint Petersburg. Another time, this one earlier, was vodka soaked and with a temporary employee’s daughter named Nikki, she all of perhaps 18. I don’t know. Another time was at a getaway English language camp with a girl named Marina. I envied Svetlana her sexual openness and confidence as she explained how she fell into prostitution, and then once in the allure of sex and money. I was as she told me her 75th and final client, when I paid her $100 for an evening in the ‘Oktoberskaya’ Hotel in Nizhniy Novgorod on a dark and up till meeting her, lonely July night. She began our session by changing into a beautiful nightgown in the small hotel room bathroom and bending low brought me to orgasm unprotected with her mouth. I was moved. We then had sex with a condom. I called her the next day inviting her to dinner and another session of paid for sex. She readily agreed. Then I upped the antenna inviting her to take a train trip with me to Moscow for shopping, to which she also acceded. We stayed at the Radisson Kievskaya hotel and had sex every night for the few days we stayed together which was over a long weekend. I was hooked. Svetlana was beautiful, 21, a former high school swimming champ, had studied to become a low level nurse and was reportedly seeing a married Russian man named Konstantine with whom together they had ownership of a dog named Rebecca. Svetlana parents, both of modest means, Boris and Nadejda, had long since divorced, leaving Svetlana to be raised in relative poverty by Western measures, living at first in a shared apartment or ‘komunalka’ before moving to a small two room apartment with no elevator or balcony. I secretly delighted in the thought that she therefore had ‘daddy issues’ making her sexually prolific. She also described to me her first girl girl experience, which I thrilled to. Svetlana was unlike any girl I had known before of which there were few. Svetlana was the second prostitute I had slept with, the first being a light skinned Dominican Republic national in a hotel on a business trip to Caracas, Venezuela. The sex, mind blowing, equal to the sense of guilt it brought with it, for I had thought myself loyal to the woman I then loved and had married, Christine Ryan. In this I was proven quite incorrect. Svetlana I would learn in time was less than honest in some matters important to her. The first was her removing her diaphragm without advising me, leading to her solitary pregnancy and delivery of our only child son, Nicholas James Macy in the fall of 2000. The second was far more honerous and dangerous to me, that she had had a lover met before our introduction, an FSB trained Chechen was veteran named Alexander Valerievich Tregubov, who ten years and a month ago as I type this, introduced himself to me in a desperate phone call, and that they together managed to conspire against me, leading me to 2012 divorce and 2013 retreat from Russia to the US for promulgation the story that I was under a death threat from Alexander and his pal Egish Kharchatrian. Alexander had called me due to an email I had sent to another prostitute, this one named Evgeniya Viktorovna Kosheleva who I had met in a city center bordello during the summer of 2010 when she was 19. We had unprotected sex that glorious afternoon, and another nine times in that year of 2010, before she took what was to become her annual break in whoring and return to family in Angren, Uzbekistan a failed former Soviet factory town in the Fergana Valley. During one of our sessions, Evgeniya, or Genya as I would come to call her, had come on outcall to me for a session of sex in the apartment I was the renting as my apartment had been seriously water damaged by an unsolved roof fire on what I would learn was JFK’s birthday of May 29th in either 2008 or more likely 2009. During a break between our two sessions that I would always fit I to our hour, she had used my computer and left her email address in the browser history. In the summer of 2011 I drafted and sent to her an email inquiring were she back in Saint Petersburg and if so, would she like to meet. And then the unexpected happened, a man returned my message with a phone call. This man was Alexander. He sounded in retrospect too excited, too eager that I might meet Evgeniya. He begged me not to hang up which I nearly did, for in my by then significant experience bedding whores, starting relationships with them, which always included getting their direct mobile numbers, I never went through a go between such as a pimp, which Alexander Tregubov represented himself to be. I stayed on the line listening to Alexander promising me in a few days time a call from Genya and then, likely, a meeting. Sex for money, yet again. And in a few days Genya called me and we agreed not to meet in a brothel but by a nearby metro station, from where we, having been reintroduced to in the case of Genya, and introduced to in the case of Alexander, made our way to a small banya. In that banya, we all stripped, and got into Romania toga style sheets, sat around a table where Alexander explained that he was not only Genya’s pimp, but also her lover and that she was desperately in love with him. Mattered not a white to me. I only wanted to have sex with Genya again who was by then 20. We drank beer and engaged in unprotected sex with me penetrating her vaginally while Alexander penetrated her anus. I felt like a porn actor in a 1980s Ginger Lynn Porto, specifically the one entitled ‘New Wave Hookers’. Alexander bragged that he had served in Chechnya, oddly describing that he had suffered a war wound leaving him sterile, and equally oddly how easy it was to kill a man. He provided beers for the three of us, which we eagerly drank. Only in 2014 would I get confirmation from NCIS agent Doug Boyce, via head of security of the London office of Marsh and McClellan, Dan Mead, two expats I had met earlier in Saint Petersburg, and Dan’s personal connection at the Crimes Against Foreigners Department of the Saint Petersburg city police department, that Alexander had poisoned my beer with some unknown agent causing me to lose 40 pounds over the next month. This accounted for his near delirious enjoyment of having bragged to me about how easy it was to kill a man. He was practically begging to tell me more. In time I would learn that he had been long waiting to meet me, to play ‘Street theater’ to get me to believe his story of being Genya’s pimp and lover, and that in response for me later frequenting Genya’s bordello and ravishing her several times, that he had late that Christmas Eve of 2011, gotten drunk with Genya and beaten her before driving her back to her bordello, by then on Marata Street at House 56 on the top floor. The next morning, with wife and son away seeing her parents in Nijniy Novgorod, Genya and later her madam Angela repeatedly called to my phone. I had slept in due to a late evening unprotected lyrics fucking another whore I had taken to, this one Tanya, an ethnic Korean Russian national from Russians Far East, whom I had earlier met in a local bar and had taken home and fucked. I returned Angela’s call to learn what I then believed to be true story of Alexander in a drunken jealous rage beating the much smaller Genya. In late 2013 Genya herself would tell me this was a hoax, a lie, designed to manipulate my feelings and actions towards Genya. A massive psy-op, as I would learn under NCIS agent Doug Boyce informal tutelage in his Virginia Beach home in early 2014 where I had taken refuge from all that had and was happening to me. Having heard Angela tell me Genya had been beaten senseless by Alexander, I donned my Batman cape and swept into action driving across town to her bordello. With Angela’s permission I removed Genya from the bordello that she called home and privately nursed her ‘back to health’ in my apartment for the next five days. And as they had planned, in those five days I fell head over heels in love with this strange girl. She had pretended to have lost portions of her memory from the purported attack when I took her to a local private hospital, and the doctor confirmed this in his written analysis. I was hooked having fully swallowed hook, line, and sinker of this fabricated and complex tale. In those five days, mostly she slept or feigned sleep in my king sized master bed; only once did we make love, which included me for the first time penetrating her anally. We did go out to a downtown bar one evening where in the front seat of the taxi, she joyfully exclaimed that she was an Uzbechka. I admit her additional level of foreigness being from Uzbekistan made her seem that much more desperate and attractive to me. At the end of her time with me she went on about how she must return to her life as a prostitute and to her lover/pimp Alexander whom she claimed to be desperately in love with. This was December 30th. She left me brokenhearted, taking the metro back to her home at the Marata Street bordello. I recall that in anguished response I took to self medicating with a combination of hashish and cochineal. The cocaine having been recently reintroduced to my life by billionaire August Meyer, another CIA sponsored gangstalker whose task it had been to get me hooked on the Bolivian marching powder, and the hashish not long before that reintroduced by my former boss American Stephen Gardner, this before we attended a Roger Waters concert celebrating the 30th anniversary of the issuance of Pink Floyd’s Dark Side of the Moon album. In both cases, both August and Stephen had made sure they had introduced me to their supplier. Genya was gone, my efforts to become her saviour rejected in favor of a boorish fool. Or so I had thought at the time. They had gone to great lengths to get me to find this lie credible, even posing for pictures together for her pages on a number of Russian social networks, where we had, the three of us, become online friends with a shared interest in sex and ‘swinging’. Later Genya would reveal to me her passwords, allowing me unfettered access to her chats with among others, Alexander. And all that I would hungrily read confirmed her, rather their story, again a complete fabrication. Segueing into the fall of 2013, I had by then considered myself victorious in the matter of rescuing Genya from Alexander and more importantly the bleak future of being a common Saint Petersburg whore. I would by March 2012 convince Genya to abandon the business of prostitution herself as well as Alexander, she would reside in a small two room rented apartment by the Udelnaya metro station, secured for her initially by Alexander in January 2012, later paid for by me. We would reside there together after having been advertently discovered by my conspiring wife in another session of ‘Street theater’ in which she and Genya were supposedly introduced to each other in my apartment, where they argued until the wee hours how much they each loved me, one more than the other, resulting in my leaving the apartment with Genya to reside with her, much to what I believed to be incorrectly Alexander’s dismay. We would over the next 20 months reside together three times, culminating in my physically lifting her up up, and tossing her her, shoeless out onto the street upon her revelation to me that not only was I under a death threat from Alexander and his pal Egish Kharchatrian, but that she had conspired with them to trick me into believing I had saved Genya. She recalled our first date not in the bordello and therefore paid for, but an evening attending an intimate concert hall where we had wine and enjoyed the solo performance of Tatiana something or other, Genya’s professed favorite. I presented to her a bouquet of roses. Genya recalled their color, red, as she illustrated the fact that her memory was in no way damaged and that Alexander had never beaten her. I was aghast. I had been tricked. I had changed my life in ways most disadvantageous to me in order to save a life, her life, regardless of the cost to mine. This I would learn in time had all been planned for long before, by of all organizations, the CIA. Upon her December 2011 rejection of my proffered hand, I took to fucking other prostitutes whom I knew with great fury. One named Natasha, I invited if she should find a like minded girl ready like her to be filmed in the act, to a sort of threeway replay of my earlier session with Alexander and Genya. Natasha, an ethnic Uzbek, her originally from Tula, a mother of two, married to a man she claimed to love but could not support them, introduced me to Kazan native Albina Taptiga. Albina in short order introduced me to amphetamine, which I injested nasally from February 2012 until I left Russia in October of 2013, the following year. Albina Taptiga, I would learn had been tasked much like Stephen and August, to introduce narcotics into my earlier sober life. She was joined in this a few months earlier when in September 2011, Adam Stanhope introduced me to the pleasures of smoking freebase MDPV, a ‘bath salt’, and his colleague, cross dresser, Mark Brady, introduced me to the ‘love drug’ known as MDMA. All this on my trip to bury my 79 year old mother in Massachusetts. I recall Albina’s overexcited gaze as I snorted that first fat line. Albina introduction of amphetamine to me resulted in a lost four day weekend wherein she introduced me to her younger and also, like her, bisexual partner, Evgeniya Kritova. They also fed me a weak tablet form of MDMA, pleasing but no where the climactic highs of the crystal version provided by Mark. In any case, I was hooked, ultimately revealing my use of speed to Genya later than month in a banya session where we met for a sexual encounter. Genya by 2013 joined me in the use of this stimulant, significantly enhancing our sex life. Sex with Genya on a combination of hashish and speed was mostly what I thought I was living for at the time. Genya would repeatedly seek me out, then reject me purporting to the favor of Alexander, and return to me again for a another round. I was hooked on her as well and had convinced myself saving her was worth everything I had, as I had lost my beloved mother to COPD earlier that September of 2011. Her death had set me off in manner unexpected by me, though likely forecast by CIA who had apparently applied aggressive psychological analytical tools against me in order to determine which psy-ops tools to engage against me next. Sex and death, a deadly combination. When I left Russia under presumed and aforementioned death threat in October of 2013, I kept my eyes on Genya’s and Alexander’s social network pages, and was surprised to find Genya had not rushed back to Alexander’s waiting embrace much to my surprise. Instead she gave hints that she had gone back to work at yet another bordello, this one with gal pal, whom I had never liked, nor slept with, Uzbechka Camilla. Later shots of her with a new beautiful, again not Alexander. By June 2014 I had learned that my wife was in on the conspiracy to divorce and defraud me with Genya and Alexander. Alexander had in December of 2013 in our final Skype call told me that Genya had poisoned me months earlier in August of 2011. This because he knew I by then suspected him. I finally learned that Genya was up to something with her mother in late 2013, before Genya’s revelations by installed cheap Android phone spy software. I eagerly listened in as she called her mother in faraway Angren, Uzbekistan, the night I initially accused her of lying. She begged her mother to calm her as we were arguing, and she subtly informed her mother that I had discovered her deception. Her mother also made reference to the number 460 in manner most subtle, perhaps a reference to the compensation they were to receive should the conspiracy have succeeded. In my 3rd and final time of cohabitation with Genya, we invited Albina and her Genya to move in with us and to split the rent. We were by then all four of us daily users of speed for the most part and this just seemed to make sense. While I was mostly becoming more monogamous with Genya I recall one time alone with Albina in the flat having enjoyed together some hashish and a fat line of speed being so overwhelmed with sexual desire that I took Albina nearly instantly, and she was more than willing. Albina is of special note as she was in 2014 the first of two witnesses to inform me that she had personally witnessed Svetlana and Alexander together with Svetlana displaying affection for him in my apartment in the company of Albina, Genya and her two brothers, Evgeny and Vladimir, who would a few weeks later report that he had seen the same thing to me. That was spring 2014. A few weeks later Svetlana herself confessed to me about how and why she conspired with Alexander. I see now looking back how I was played and I see clearly the reasons I didn’t then see through the charade, I hadn’t, make of that what you will. I also see how Genya running hot and cold to me so frequently and the speed and the sex manipulated me towards needing out of the ordinary sex. Upon my return to the US in October of 2013, I planned to spend New Years Eve with a New Hampshire gal, Amanda Kelley, and had taken the opportunity to order drugs on the dark web from Adam Stanhope’s NAWLINS online shop. I ordered 10 grams of MDPV, 5 grams of MDPV freebase and a bit more than a coke can’s worth of Xanax capsules for the comedown. These items were delivered to Amanda address in New Hampshire, which bypassed Adam’s ban of selling MDPV in his home state of Massachusetts. Amanda and I met at a motel as agreed and started a 4-day sex and drugs binge. We left both is a state of disrepair. Amanda shortly thereafter winded up being pulled over by the police for reckless driving. The arresting officer found the capsules for of Xanax, confiscated them, and used them as justification to make Amanda have to go to a rehab center or be jailed. When reporting this to me over the phone, she said when they asked her where she got the pills, she hadn’t identified me to them. If she were telling the true, I was free as a bird . If she were lying I’d know about it soon enough. Dismantled as I was and strung out after 4 days of no sleep, my sense of direction was absolutely gone, and like Adam Stanhope had demonstrated while I was guest in home, absolute destruction of forming some short term memories. I made my way back to my car in a pay by the hour or daily lot, I found myself struggle to know which way to go to get back to Cumberland Ave., where I was then a guest of John’s having departed Adam Stanhope some days before in his high rise apartment with view of the Portland Bay and the Atlantic Ocean. I reported back to John how I spent 4 days doing drugs with Amanda, and he, channeling our dead father as best he could, with or without trying, I remain unsure, threw me out of his apartment, saying that I wasn’t working and smoking pot every day which was accurate. I then to a motel either in New Hampshire, or more likely Maine, added ammonia to the MDPV and made the strong bright yellow tangent yellow color. I carefully dipped some marijuana in the Yellow sap, and after placing it into a small bong I had bought at a head shop, proceeded to light up and smoke. For wasn’t the amazing stuff that Adam had tricked him into trying in August of 2011? And so to finally have possession of some of it, like in my earlier days of having a bag of weed, I was looking forward to slowly injesting it, of feeling its’ magic. Boy was I wrong. The high was amazing. I did not then really know what MDPV was, certainly did not know that it was rated more addictive than methamphetamine to which it was related molecularly. I kept going back for more, what I would was termed a constant need for redose. Finally in the wee hours I had to stop as some of my muscles got tight and I could feel zones of poor circulation in my body. I poured a hot tub and got in. This was a treatment taught to me be Albina for contracting veins and arteries due to possible speed overdose,; I applied it to possible MDPV overdose and it eased my symptoms. I fell asleep for a time, waking feeling as though someone was or had been watching me. I didn’t believe that for a second as I was certainly secure in my privacy at that motel. It wouldn’t dawn on me that I was then under police surveillance in the US each day from October 2013 to my departure from Denver, CO to Saint Petersburg, Russia in December 2016. My feelings were accurate. I found a garbage bin, a big industrial sized one that people dumped their garbage in and got fid of all the MDPV. Kept the Xanax. I then drove for several hours on a foggy and rainy night to my former US Navy shipmate back in 1988, 1989, and 1990, Chuck Jensen. Chuck had married an ICU nurse named Randee and they had two young sons, not even into their teens. They together bought a house on a few acres in Levant, Maine, outside of Bangor. I ended up throwing away all the Xanax capsules for fear of being caught with them, like the MDPV that I had thrown away after one all night near overdose on the stuff. For wasn’t the amazing stuff that Adam had tricked him into trying in August of 2011? And so to finally have possession of some of it, like in my earlier days of having a bag of weed, I was looking forward to slowly investing it. One night early in my stay at Chuck and Randee’s I heard my car alarm go off but chose to ignore it. The next day I saw clearly that in the night someone had broken into both the passenger bay and the trunk, spraying a white chemical over the dashboard and steering wheel. This recalling my September 2011 visit with Mark Brady, Adams then partner, that he had once prepared a chemical concoction which used to coat an adversary’s front door handle. It’s intention when in human contact was to discombobulate the mind, making it hard to hold and organized thoughts. Mark bragged he had put his victim into this state for no less than 6 months. Was this chemical on my dashboard in someway similar? I didn’t dare touch it, but used paper towels and cleaning spray from the kitchen to clean the afflicted surfaces. I noticed that someone had coated the inside of a tray internal to the car with a dark pungent goo. It seemed to me someone had broke in my car and left a drug similar to PV to try. I dipped a cigarette in it, and found it quite speedy but without the MDPV provided euphoria. I tried it a few times before cleaning it too. In retrospect this was the first time I know my privacy rights were breached and that my vehicle, like my honesty later, had been broken into. I didn’t realize they were in the employ of the FBI, who in turn worked on behalf of the CIA, and that the break-in was real and the drugs were placed there so that I might use them and further my use of narcotics. But why? Only later would I understand the purpose was twofold, one to build a back story of Rick Macy as drug addict real or not, and the other to get me potentially into legal trouble that they could then use to entrap me to leverage their hold over me into me agreeing to be a patsy for a false flag event they were planning. In 2014 this pattern would be repeated with the planting of crack cocaine in my master bedroom walk in closet, in the home I once owned in Victor, NY, placed in a pocket of my orange swim trunks, that I hadn’t warn for months, certainly the last time was months earlier in Russia, perhaps over a year. And again in Denver, CO in the summer of 2016, with the planting of methamphetamine in a little baggy set atop my pile of papers in the master bedroom. In both cases, I took those materials and injested them, in NY thinking I had privacy and actually considering that I might have put it there and forgot it. I hadn’t, and I didn’t. They had been planted there either by or on behalf of the local police to further my usage of narcotics, and to continue to provide relevant data for a creation of a ‘parallel construction’, a report used by all levels of police at the local fusion center. This report would slander me and cast a poor light on my investing of narcotics, lacking any perspective as to why I had chosen to sample such hard drugs. When I got to Victor NY, after my experiences with Shari Faller and Jon Poiliot Jr in Virginia Beach and their efforts to gaslight me and to get me into recreational drug use, I posted a theory, that perhaps each of those who had introduced me to a stimulant narcotic since the approximate death of my mother in September 2011 had been coordinated and thus intentional, that is to say me introductory hoped that I would develop a habit of the relevant stimulant and perhaps go on to stronger narcotics as a result. August with cocaine. Adam with MDPV. Mark with MDMA. Albina with amphetamine. Were these instances all related? If so by whom? Why? I felt like I was on to something and like the Batman having to undergo the latest of the Joker’s toxins, but he always walks away after maintaining his cool through all phases of the experience, and like the Batman, I decided to play detective. If someone wanted me into drugs, I wanted to know who, and I would be damned if I did not find out. So using self as bait I began using drugs, intentionally, to see who was watching me and had wanted me to be introduced to all these stimulants, I began using crack and heroin while in Victor, NY., methamphetamine when in Denver CO. I was able to get my hands on these drugs through local prostitutes, Tara Parsons, now deceased due to a heroin overdose from shooting up, and Kristen Mattson now in recovery for several years from heroin injecting and crack smoking. Tara introduced me to her source for these items before one night passing out in my home, nearly dying, I believe, after having shot up on the way home at a department store. Often while I was in that part of Rochester, NY I would feel eyes upon me in varying degrees, up to and including an SUV full of young, undercover FBI agents, who were awaiting me as I exited Kristen’s downtown Rochester residence. These boys didn’t fit the scene, they were too white as they were not colored as were the majority of folk in this part of town. And they had the look of clean cut undercover agents waiting to leap from their vehicle, not braided hip hoppers as this area seemed to breed. I recall driving away quickly being quite concerned. What had I learned? We’re people actually watching ME? Was my concept of privacy a delusion? Earlier the police or person or persons working for the police broke into my Victor home and left standing up in one of my kitchen cabinets a porn graphic DVD featuring felatio. I knew it wasn’t mine nor had Nick, my son, who was by then living with me having entered the US via JFK international airport on December 4th, 2014 put it there. Someone had put it there. Who? Why? Again in Denver after I responded to a Craigslist ad from a woman who wanted a fling to get back at her ex. I was more than ready to cooperate when I was met at the motel room door by a woman apparently my age or older, relatively fat, preparing and smoking crystal methamphetamine. She offered me some. I accepted, and soon left the room having had no sex, but having gotten extremely high, with a small bag of crystal purchased for my further use in the privacy of my new home. How strange meeting this woman after reading her nondescript ad. When I returned to the Skyline1801 apartment complex, the management nearly immediately informed me that we would no longer be allowed to store our bikes in the underground storage facility they had offered for our no charge use from April 21st, 2016, the day we moved in. We quickly took the bikes and put them on the balcony of the living room. I wondered did somehow they know how I had spent my afternoon? Why did I even pursue this train of thought. Certainly it was ridiculous, for I was a private US citizen with Privacy rights, the Bill of Rights and the Constitution, had committed no crime, right? I later invested the contents of the bag I had purchased in the privacy of my room after son and self had gone to bed. I got extremely high. My fire detector power indicator came on, glowing an angry bright red. Earlier it had shone intermittently, now was constantly on. Was this in some way a message from someone or someones watching me remotely? Later the Skyline1801 management would tell me in conversational tone, that yes, each apartment had camera surveillance for the inhabitants protection, while no cameras were located in the hallways. This seemed ludicrous to me. The lease had said nothing about included camera surveillance for Christ’s sake. I ended up staying up for four days as a result, my favorite period of time to ride the stimulate the I had known as amphetamine in Russia. After I had used all the methamphetamine that I had purchased another bag of it, unopened, showed up in my bedroom a top a stack of papers. I hadn’t set it there. This was clearly the doing of a third party similar to the crack cocaine being planted in earlier in my Victor, NY home. Nick got into my locally purchased legal weed and began to somehow order synthetic marijuana and synthetic cathinones online using his cellphone. These items arrived, though Nick had little or no ability to pay for these items. On a single occasion, we had while in Victor, NY, tried ordering drugs from China in addition to sampling several US produced legal highs potpourri, or synthetic marijuana. We were guaranteed by the manufacturer that all the ingredients were legal, no by then banned JWH-18 was included. I ended up throwing it all out as well as the 70 grams of A-PVP and the later 40 grams of A-PVP that Mark Brady had delivered to me via the US Postal Service. While using these research chemicals in Victor I took to watching porn on my tablet. The volume kept by itself going to its highest or loudest setting. As soon as I took my finger off the screen, the volume maximized itself again. I learned this was some covert hacking being done by or on behalf of the FBI. My Facebook page began to list as possible friends a few of the ladyboys I had played with in Thailand, as well as the name of the suburb of Thailand they resided in came up as a recommendation. This had also happened in Virginia Beach as one of the black transsexuals I had bought methamphetamine from appeared in my recommended friends list. Why? Who? Unlike in Virginia Beach, in Victor, I threw all the A-PVP away, choosing instead the highs of crack and heroin, as having far less downside than the synthetic cathinones that was known to me as A-PVP. Back to Denver, Nick ordered, received on several occasions synthetic marijuana and synthetic cathinones. He would freebase the cathinones himself, feeding me more doses spaced every few hours, a bit safer than the night of self dosing and redoing in that Motel likely in Southern Maine. I watched porn for up to four days from time to time, usually over a weekend so Nick would miss no school. After one of the four day binges, high on a synthetic cathinone, MDMDH, or something like that Nick and I walked the two blocks to the local Seven Eleven convenience store, only to find a TV crew videotaping there, as well as finding that all the employee’s uniforms had changed to a more multicolored uniform. All oddly offputting. In retrospect, I understand it now as a psy op intended to distract the target’s attentions to what was really going on. The staff must had been briefed that I was a stimulant drug user up after a four day binge. I recall the checkout cashier remarking that boy I must be tired, knowingly, for somehow he knew I had been up for four days. Who had made him aware of this? And there it was, on the bottom of the bottom most rack of the glass doored refrigerator where we would take fresh gallons of milk every few days, a small packet of methamphetamine, perhaps a gram or two. I was startled. I pointed this out to Nick, who attempted to point it out to one of the 7-11 employees who kept denying that it existed. These boys had clearly been coached on our arrival and were counting on me to reach down and snag the packet of illegal crystals. I chose to pass. I couldn’t get out of there fast enough. A creeping feeling of paranoia was settling over me. I had yet again, dodged a bullet. It seems this game, whatever it was and with whomever I was playing it, had rules. I had to willingly break the rules in this a public setting. I chose not to, unlike my earlier decisions in private. I had thought, you, whoever you are, planted these narcotics either to entrap me or for me to use, so I will use them and rid myself of them in this way in what I considered my private home, be it mine or rented and ultimately force you to interact with me in some way, and thereby reveal yourself. I had no idea that someone had put together and got signed a warrant for this level of surveillance. Was I also on the terrorist ‘no-fly’ list I wondered? Just as that policeman who had attempted to serve me with court papers a few days after I had moved I to my Victor, NY home, said, ‘Herbert Macy, we know you’re in there’, though my car parked in the garage not visible and all my blinds closed. Why had he said that? Who were they that he referred to? I ignored his repeated knocking and shouting, preferring him to stick the court papers to the outside wall of my house instead of presenting myself to him. I was a private citizen with certain rights to be secure in my own home, privacy among them, and based upon that chose to ignore him. I would gather the court papers later. They were related to the divorce and had been initiated by my then ex-wife. Another story for another blog post. In Denver, Nick and I continued to injest marijuana, synthetic marijuana, and synthetic cathinones, the latter two he would order through the mail, and some more potent than the others. Finally, I decided enough was enough, Nick’s newfound love of all things synthetic had to stop, he was trying to sleep in and miss his online high school sessions, so no more play for Nick or I. School came first. I began to flush these materials down the toilet. Nick grew furious. I decided were he to keep this up, I would have to move out. I was under an obligation to not get arrested for the 12 months following my appearance before the Victor, NY judge who had agreed to discharge my misdemeanor charge in 12 months time, and we were in the final quarter, with Nick not slowing down in his interest to try all things narcotic. Was this a coincidence? I had had my suspicions on Nick actually making efforts on behalf of his mother to entrap me. He had apparently done so in Victor by against my wishes and direct verbal commands nurtured those 30 little pot plants that ended up being the cause for my arrest. He had written on a pet playhouse we had in Victor in black magic marker, the words MEOW, MEOW which is a slang term for Mephedrone, another legal high, one I had not as of then yet sampled. I had decided whatever he was up to I would treat him as a father should a son. One afternoon upon returning to the Denver apartment, I touched a soap bottle by the kitchen sink, and was immediately struck low. Three dimensions folded into our lyrics two and I was laying prone on my back on the kitchen floor. I had been poisoned again, this time not by a Russian, but by an American. The damn soap bottle. After recovering I quickly and thoroughly washed it off without touching it. I was left as a result with an underlying fear of any object in the apartment, for anything could have been gotten to while we, my son and I, were out. Damn. The fear was intense. As he was doing poorly in his online Denver high school, I ended up pulling Nick our of Denver Online Hugh School and enrolling him in the online only high school of Penn Foster Online High School. This would secure him from investigation by organizations like the misnamed Child Protective Services and tentially others, based on a complaint generated by the school, as Penn Foster had no deadlines. We abandoned the Denver apartment with one month to go on my sentencing agreement of 12 months for a whirlwind tour of Colorado, Arizona, Nevada, New Mexico, Utah,Wyoming, and even a bit of California. This last minute travel decision ensured I was out of state thus increasing the difficulty and reducing the probability that I might be arrested for illicit drug use in the Denver apartment with my son, even though always in separate rooms. I thought they need me to stay in Denver to arrest me, so I will come back to Denver the day after my sentence agreement expires in mid December. Upon our return, the property staff seemed more relaxed, somehow more hospitable to me. Had my unplanned vacation thrown a monkey wrench into the gears that were to have chewed me up, caused me to be arrested for immediate 12 month prison time, no trial needed dude to the agreement I had made with the Victor NY court? They seemed pleased that they hadn’t had to arrest me or put me away. It seemed that by playing by the rules of whatever this game was, I could come out in advantage. And as a matter of interest, on my final four day binge session, undercover FBI agent Coy Ebell had sent me a late night series of photos of himself with leading Republic politicians, Trump, Giulliani, come to mind. We hadn’t been chatting. We weren’t even close. Why was this unasked for blizzard of law enforcement figures on a national scale was targeted at me specifically at that time as I was binging on cathinones and porn? And what of the mysterious email I received just after that final binge? An email from a man named Stewart Devine, US State Department Diplomat in Residence in the Rocky Mountain Region, claimed to have met me at a local jobs fair that had taken place while I was binging, and that he was looking forward to our agreed upon follow on meeting on a certain date and time, which I don’t now recall. I was fascinated. Taking the bait, as he apparently had taken mine, I replied that I too had enjoyed our ‘meeting’ and was looking forward to seeing him ‘again.’ When that date came, I, in brand new suit (I had bought this specially for my court appearance) arrived at the main campus of the University of Denver, which was where Stewart had a small office. Upon meeting me, his nervousness was visible. He knew that I knew we hadn’t met, but we both played along. Who would have the authority to make a senior US State Department employee lie like this? Well, national law enforcement, the FBI, that’s who. His nervous tics were abundant and I honestly was enjoying the show. Stewart had a presentation to do for a number of prospective US State Department employees like myself and I escorted him to that meeting room, at his invitation, nervous as he was. On the way through winding hallways and up and down stairs hate Stewart claimed to have left a notebook he needed at a nearby faculty members office. I noted it was another ex-army type, this one responsible for recruiting at the University for the CIA. There were underlings in her office with a similar sort of military bearing. All former officers, I was sure. And unlike Stewart, who could have set off a Geiger counter with all the nervous radiation he was radiating, they appeared to be confident in their ability to gaslight me if need be, whereas this appeared to pose a problem for Stewart. I took a ‘Welcome to the CIA’ pamphlet as Stewart found his ‘lost’ notepad, and we made our way together to the meeting room. About that same time, I went to the local US Post Offices and put in a 30 day hold on my mail card as a way to trump and to hold back my son’s unstoppable torrent of online ordered ‘goodies’. In only 3 days it came back unexplained leading a delivery of yet another batch of synthetic marijuana and synthetic cathinones from vendors who had been convinced to ship by a broke 16 year old? Who was responsible for this? I still had a hard time accepting what I was learning was true. This was someone high enough in the federal government to make such a decision in such a manner to return against my will, my 30 day mail stop order, and that someone was in Law Enforcement. And someone was paying for those drugs, it just wasn’t Nick. it was the FBI I would learn in time. Another clue I was given by undercover FBI agent Coy Ebell. Cot and I had met weeks earlier in the apartment building lift, where Coy and his wife a bit too eagerly introduced themselves. She was an airline flight attendant, while he was an unpaid for Trump campaigner with a dream of being elected to the House of Representatives to help push Colorado as he put it into the Red and out of the Blue. He invited me join him as an unpaid for Trump campaigner, I considered and declined, as I didn’t have an opinion on the upcoming election and his invitation gave me bad vibes. I invited Coy to dinner at my expense. We walked together from the apartment complex to the restaurant a few blocks away. I referred to Coy as sheriff, to which he responded neither this way nor that, but accepted it as we walked along. I forget most of the details of our conversation, but one thing shines brightly in my mind, something about targets having free will, that is an ability to decide for themselves what they should do. I found this to be interesting, as I was a target and I had recently used my free will to dump all the potentially addictive drugs that my son was ordering online line. Was this what Coy was referring to? Seemed so. After the election and Trump had won, Coy was eager to invite me to his flat where the only thing he could think to say was that he had been invited to the inauguration in Washington, DC. He repeatedly showed me the actual invitation with its tasteful calligraphy. It didn’t strike me then, but only later, he had nothing more scripted to say to me so he kept repeated the fact that he had been invited as a sort of mantra to get through the end of our evening. How difficult it must be to keep up this charade I couldn’t help but to think. His behavior recalled the unnatural acting of a middle aged neighbor down the hall on our second floor, who had burst in unapologetically to our flat sharing her stated concern that we be aware of a black homeless man breaking into cars in the facilities fenced in parking lot. Once having injected herself into our small flat she seemed desperate to keep the conversation going about her concern regarding this homeless man, she purported was stealing from residents cars. She paused upon seeing Nick and seemed to exude affection towards him, this in stark contrast to her attempt to feign some sort of caring or passion as to our well beings as they appeared to be at some sort of risk due to the aforementioned homeless man. Finally, I thanked her and she left, seemingly nearly unwillingly. So odd, I recall. And just as Genya had never seemed to have had a genuine love interest in Alexander Tregubov, I couldn’t help but to notice an analog in Coy, as soon as I departed for Russia in December 2016, he went and got a job in IT in a local electronics plant and did not pursue his state goal of becoming a US Congressman. Had that been part of the false picture he had tried to create, his bit of ‘Street theater’? Nick and I left that apartment in late December 2016, while I returned to empty it out four months later prior to the expiration of the lease. I spoke briefly with the tall black security guard Tommy. He mentioned in passing how surprised he was when not long ago 19 apartments had been vacated simultaneously. I thought that through. A highly in demand residential property loses 19 tenants on the same day? No way. Statistically unlikely at best and more likely impossible. No these 19 vacancies supported my just formed paradigm that sticks with me until this day, that the FBI had been responsible to the CIA for my gangstalking while in the US from Massachusetts to New Hampshire to Maine to Virginia to North Carolina to Maryland, Pennsylvania and New York from October 2013 to December 2016. I was just then beginning to read about the whole ‘targeted individual’ paradigm as well as about ‘gangstalking’ and everything I had experienced including the likely directed energy weapon assault on my stomach in that Denver flat some weeks earlier were completely consistent with those paradigms. So just as the national spy agencies like CIA and FBI and FSB were not against using sex and drugs against me, I learned how to use sex and drugs against them, by using myself as bait, forcing them to interact in ways that felt unnatural, that stuck out, and let me see more clearly the gangstalking and gaslighting for what they were. Svetlana just came into my bedroom accusing me of having ruined my life because I tried hard drugs. From the time I fled to the home I once owned in Victor, NY I decided to delve deeply into the realm of using hard drugs. This to use self as bait to find out if my theory was correct which it was that gangstalkers who had for years attempted to portray themselves as my friends were nothing but and had only been part of the larger conspiracy to target me so that I might become what they tried to make it look like on the surface, that I was a sex crazed, drug addled maniac, and not what I really was, the first born male of the family Macy, who through hard work and by and large keeping the commandments, had become a self made man. I was a detective of sorts and I uncovered the most heinous of plots by using myself as bait, believing then as I do today, that I am stronger than the average drug user and could survive, even thrive having dove into the deep side of that pool. Svetlana again put forward the paradigm that I left Russia in October of 2013 solely because I was mentally unbalanced and not because she with many others had conspired to make me fall into the paradigm the CIA had drafted. Instead, I dodged and I weaved, taking lessons each day to learn that which I know and about which I write. She knows I have again used hard drugs and self as bait to uncover this last chapter of my story, and this upsets her greatly. She offers that if I would only accept that which was bullied upon me, I can have an acceptable life, now far smaller than what I believed that I had. She in this is incorrect, for the truth will out so long as whistleblowers like me and Karen Stewart exist. Truth to power. I choose to love Svetlana and I have forgiven her betrayal of me. She denies the truths she told me in June 2014 and that she conspired with Alexander Tregubov to gaslight me and to push me into drug abuse with their story that I was under a death threat. I wondered why she had done this and marveled at how she for years lived a double life, on the surface a faithful wife, while beneath the surface she was anything but that. She claims to love me as she feeds me, cleans up after me, claiming that she alone will change my diapers when that time comes. She blames my targeting solely on me, claiming that I destroyed our once happy lives as man and wife. She behaves completely in line with the gangstalkers zersetzung and counterproductive handbooks, continuall gaslighting me in response to me recent deep dive back into synthetic cathinones. She refuses to let me share with her the truth that I learned for it incriminates her and those with whom she has allied herself. They hope for my silence, my destruction, my compliance with the narrative the CIA long ago drafted for me. And in this they have failed and will continue to fail, for my responsibilities as a man, a father, and yes, as a husband are far more powerful than my shirking off these duties in hopes for three meals a day, a bed to sleep in, and our two cats. We have a son, who like his father delved into narcotics, now set aside as he works to become the man, and I hope father and husband he might one day be. My belief in my responsibility to the child he once was saved my life when like characters in the class ‘Master and Margarita’ set upon me to push me from the path of righteousness into lonely debauchery. Having walked the first few steps in that dance, I learned and understood that that was an incorrect path. My use of hard drugs since escaping the entrapment set up for me in Virginia Beach in 2014, was solely done to do detective’s work, to learn who had gangstalked and gaslighted me along my path towards redemption and a fuller life as man, husband, and father. Svetlana uses blanket gaslighting words to attempt to convince me that my drug use damaged my senses, my life, and that of our small family. She refuses to listen as I attempt as I have attempted in the past to illuminate her way out of the darkness that she perhaps was born into, certainly that her circumstance thrust her into. My truth is so strong and overpowering that it must be squelched, put out, for fear that I might reveal how our national security services and those who for self interest like her cooperate with them to target individuals like myself. Today Facebook unexpectedly allowed me an account again after having deleted my prior account for revealing the identities of those who had targeted, gaslighted, and gangstalked me. As I dove back into that social network, itself a tool of the CIA, NSA, FBI and similar organizations, I was met with names from the past, from the dark days when I did not yet understand all that had happened to me, my gangstalking, gaslighting, and targeting. I deleted a number of them and yet reached out with friend requests to some of those who had betrayed me like David Fleming, Raymond Terris, James Beatty among others. This perhaps a manipulative response to my recent and I hope well written blog posts exposing the larger conspiracy, having succeeded in small scale to enter the ethos of our online reality. I am not going away, not yet, perhaps not ever, for I am my parents son, strong, brave, and true, unlike so many who worked most fiendishly to betray this New England boy. I will of course tamper down my recent drug use, as I see the results, exposing Svetlana for her role in that criminal conspiracy, and have little need for the advantages that such stimulation while unorthodox, provides, going forward. That tool shall sit in the toolbox, ready to be used again should need arise as it had in 2014. Mankind has always struggled in the use of psychoactive materials, those that cause differing levels of euphoria, in our lifetimes being outlawed for their potentially destructive properties, while overlooking the benefits of the insights their use also brings. I too struggled for a time. Holding my mother’s hand set me down a path of depression, and debauchery, for I understood that like my parents before me, I too would someday die. In my frightened and poorly illuminated state chose to pursue sexual congress aided and abetted by the use of hashish and amphetamine at first, later synthetic cathinones, crack cocaine and even heroin (always snorted, never injected) for my life while outwardly appearing commercially successful, was at its’ core, was lonely and yes targeted with all that that implies. Since the events of my FBI led gangstalking in the US from October 2013 to December 2016, I have a more accurate map of the road, a paradigm that fits with all that I experienced in those days since my beloved mother’s passing in September 2011 and earlier. How to best communicate this paradigm in the face of all the forces the corrupt authorities have brought to bear is a challenge I honestly struggle with for as a man alone and apart my resources slowly dwindle each day. I am inspired by other truth tellers like Karen Stewart, Ole Dammegard, Edward Snowden, Chelsea Manning, Jason Goodman, Julian Assange and others who at great cost to themselves are lights in the corrupt darkness that if left to the devices of the very powerful and rich families who sew the tapestry of our world would be extinguished. My path is clear. My duties now known. It is with a clear conscience that I write my tale, in social network posts, in my blog, in my tweets, yes tweets. Who’d have thunk? )) Funny. Humor was always my ally going back to my time in that Catholic High School, and in the US Navy and will likely remain so. How frightened those bullies must be who oppose my hard earned world view, my narrative, that they might be exposed for what they chose to be. Their boisterous accusations that I was and likely remain in need of some sort of mental treatment are nothing but signposts, well lit arrows illuminating their various deceptions and revealing their sometimes subtle work of having gaslighted me, of having used the dark arts of NLP and psy ops in order to isolate me and have me become the figure they describe in response to my attempts to bring light into the dark. Giveaways are what their unfounded accusations are, demonstrating that they are tools of a corrupt surveillance state. Svetlana even went so far as to have me committed to a psychiatric hospital on six occasions in the past twelve months. I gently remind her that the psychiatrists ultimately adjudicated me as normal with extreme tendencies. This came at the cost of having to ride those waves of antipsychotic medications meant to befuddle and dim the sense of targeted individuals like myself. But I ultimately threw off those shackles, refusing to take more pills, having lived through that part of the zersetzung handbook, leaving me as I am today, coherent, capable, and ready to continue to share my story with the world. This is a path that no one in their right mind chooses, it is rather thrust upon individuals such as myself by the corrupt as they go about their existences in day to day manner. But realizing this is my path is ultimately freeing, and empowering. I at the age of 56 with no family support, and gaslighting, gangstalking wife understand I must garner my strength each day in order to move forward, to make some use of these lessons of the past embedded in my memories. My task is neither simple nor easy, but it never was. This is the cross I bear. I have no choice but to lift it up and carry it with me. I have found others, two men in the psychiatric hospital I consider friends, Mikhael Popov and Edic whose last name about which I must inquire. Mikhael, a lawyer, with both a sixteen year old daughter and a newborn one year old son. Like me, his wife had him committed. And like me he was released with the psychiatrists considered judgement that he too was normal. Edic, at 53, single, working in a low level construction related job was jailed for nine years against his will having been set up on a false murder charge by his first wife is a friend as well, who chooses to believe my tale as it is consistent with the betrayals he experienced at the hands of those he once loved. I look forward to seeing them both again.