Using Self as Bait
After my poisoning in August 2011, and the death of my mother the month after in September 2011, I was manipulated, maneuvered into a form of desperation, depression even. I had, by then, a net worth slightly north of $2 million, a gorgeous though supremely deceptive Russian wife, a young son, property in both Russia and the United States.
My travels had taken me to 70 countries, I had friends far wealthier than I, I had held prestigious positions as CEO of the Yellow Pages, Chairmanship of the American Chamber of Commerce in Saint Petersburg, even starting and managing my own boutique corporate sales training company. The question, what to do next buzzed within my skull.
Some would have done the smart thing and bought an investment property. Others would have done the less wise thing and bought a sports car. I admit for a time I had my eyes on a Z4. And then there was me. Thoughts of my mother's death, and due to my being poisoned and losing 40 pounds as a result, my mind was often clouded with thoughts of my own mortality.
Not until several years later would I realize I was the target of an advanced and just as cruel psy op from our friends at the CIA. Christ. Even typing those three letters now fills me with a level of disbelief, this due in no small part to the cognitive dissonance set up by years of middle class American programming from TV, movies, books, newspapers, magazines, and God bless, the Internet.
The CIA are supposed to be good guys, like James Bond, or other fictional character. The truth is closer to that described in the excellent work of Douglas Valentines, 'CIA as Organized Crime'.
I recall my decision on what to do next. It was a sunny fall day in Massachusetts, in my hometown of Kingston, in the company of newfound friend and old time neighbor, Adam Stanhope. He had only moments before passed to me a glass pipe with a bit of plant material covered by psychoactive stimulant MDPV, a synthetic cathinone, and this was the freebase of that material. I had no inkling as to this material, it's effects, origins, or status.
As we sat there together on that warm day, Adam had provided me some marijuana which I enjoy then as now, and as I got high, he from time to time took small hits of this material unknown and aforementioned.
He seemed OK. And I had made money, made myself by taking risks, by venturing into unclear waters, joining the Navy, getting into sales, moving to Russia, setting up my own company. So why not. This approach had served me well, my mother had liked Adam, and he had been a close friend of my younger brother John's for years.
Adam hadn't offered me this smoke, I recall. I had asked to try it. He had simply baited me, and baited me well. I had no idea that as a result, within the next 48 hours, I would willingly get naked with a man I'd never met, dress up in hooker clothing including fishnet stockings and bright pink heels, and engage in sexual liasons with this fellow, Mark Brady of Iron River, Wisconsin.
I should have thought to be suspicious when he just happened to have all these woman's attire in my size, especially the heels. I learned a bit that day the excitement Bruce Jenner must have felt on his furtive trips to Las Vegas.
Mark was a self admitted stimulant freak having reportedly enjoyed addiction for six years. And while his drug of choice was MDPV, his old lady, according to him preffered methamphetamine. I have yet to meet her, though I saw them once together in a picture now removed by law enforcement from the Internet, as they were arrested for possession of these materials some years after 2011.
The removal by police likely done to protect Mark's status as a police informant. I should have copied and pasted that shot. Alas, I didn't, though I recall it well enough.
That evening having ingested Mark's recommended dosage of MDMA, followed several hours later by a similar dose, Mark and I ventured into his porn collection. In those days, I had liked my porn, though limited it to girl/boy situations, not being turned on much by girl/girl, or boy/boy. As our evening progressed and the drugs took hold, in a rented apartment in Pembroke Ma, with the semen like smell of MDPV filling the air, Mark introduced me to pictures of little girls, fully dressed and in adult make up.
No kiddy porn, but apparently images shown with intent to lead me down that path most foul. I recall a sense of suspicion and in Mark, an an unnatural vibe. I don't think he was into kiddy porn. I think Mark had been tasked by the FBI and those boys by CIA to gangstalk me, to psy op me into becoming a criminal, easy to prosecute, to hate, to entrap.
There were lines these corrupt actors had trouble in crossing. For this I am grateful, for in those days, had they for example introduced heroin or method, maybe I wouldn't have made it this far. What if they had brought to bear other women, perhaps a mother daughter combo to reel me in? I shudder to think.
And so on that day in Kingston, before being ravished, drug entranced, by a man ten years my senior, I took the decision not to buy a sports car, not to buy an investment property, but to save a little boy and his mother.
The boy I had never seen. The mother young Evgeniya Kosheleva, or Genya as I grew to call her. She the most desperate of the seven professional working girls I was seeing, and the only one with child, the only one living in a bordello, trapped in part by an Uzbek passport, being reliant on her supposed pimp, Tregubov, my poisoner, for work permit and connections in that dark world.
My travels had taken me to 70 countries, I had friends far wealthier than I, I had held prestigious positions as CEO of the Yellow Pages, Chairmanship of the American Chamber of Commerce in Saint Petersburg, even starting and managing my own boutique corporate sales training company. The question, what to do next buzzed within my skull.
Some would have done the smart thing and bought an investment property. Others would have done the less wise thing and bought a sports car. I admit for a time I had my eyes on a Z4. And then there was me. Thoughts of my mother's death, and due to my being poisoned and losing 40 pounds as a result, my mind was often clouded with thoughts of my own mortality.
Not until several years later would I realize I was the target of an advanced and just as cruel psy op from our friends at the CIA. Christ. Even typing those three letters now fills me with a level of disbelief, this due in no small part to the cognitive dissonance set up by years of middle class American programming from TV, movies, books, newspapers, magazines, and God bless, the Internet.
The CIA are supposed to be good guys, like James Bond, or other fictional character. The truth is closer to that described in the excellent work of Douglas Valentines, 'CIA as Organized Crime'.
I recall my decision on what to do next. It was a sunny fall day in Massachusetts, in my hometown of Kingston, in the company of newfound friend and old time neighbor, Adam Stanhope. He had only moments before passed to me a glass pipe with a bit of plant material covered by psychoactive stimulant MDPV, a synthetic cathinone, and this was the freebase of that material. I had no inkling as to this material, it's effects, origins, or status.
As we sat there together on that warm day, Adam had provided me some marijuana which I enjoy then as now, and as I got high, he from time to time took small hits of this material unknown and aforementioned.
He seemed OK. And I had made money, made myself by taking risks, by venturing into unclear waters, joining the Navy, getting into sales, moving to Russia, setting up my own company. So why not. This approach had served me well, my mother had liked Adam, and he had been a close friend of my younger brother John's for years.
Adam hadn't offered me this smoke, I recall. I had asked to try it. He had simply baited me, and baited me well. I had no idea that as a result, within the next 48 hours, I would willingly get naked with a man I'd never met, dress up in hooker clothing including fishnet stockings and bright pink heels, and engage in sexual liasons with this fellow, Mark Brady of Iron River, Wisconsin.
I should have thought to be suspicious when he just happened to have all these woman's attire in my size, especially the heels. I learned a bit that day the excitement Bruce Jenner must have felt on his furtive trips to Las Vegas.
Mark was a self admitted stimulant freak having reportedly enjoyed addiction for six years. And while his drug of choice was MDPV, his old lady, according to him preffered methamphetamine. I have yet to meet her, though I saw them once together in a picture now removed by law enforcement from the Internet, as they were arrested for possession of these materials some years after 2011.
The removal by police likely done to protect Mark's status as a police informant. I should have copied and pasted that shot. Alas, I didn't, though I recall it well enough.
That evening having ingested Mark's recommended dosage of MDMA, followed several hours later by a similar dose, Mark and I ventured into his porn collection. In those days, I had liked my porn, though limited it to girl/boy situations, not being turned on much by girl/girl, or boy/boy. As our evening progressed and the drugs took hold, in a rented apartment in Pembroke Ma, with the semen like smell of MDPV filling the air, Mark introduced me to pictures of little girls, fully dressed and in adult make up.
No kiddy porn, but apparently images shown with intent to lead me down that path most foul. I recall a sense of suspicion and in Mark, an an unnatural vibe. I don't think he was into kiddy porn. I think Mark had been tasked by the FBI and those boys by CIA to gangstalk me, to psy op me into becoming a criminal, easy to prosecute, to hate, to entrap.
There were lines these corrupt actors had trouble in crossing. For this I am grateful, for in those days, had they for example introduced heroin or method, maybe I wouldn't have made it this far. What if they had brought to bear other women, perhaps a mother daughter combo to reel me in? I shudder to think.
And so on that day in Kingston, before being ravished, drug entranced, by a man ten years my senior, I took the decision not to buy a sports car, not to buy an investment property, but to save a little boy and his mother.
The boy I had never seen. The mother young Evgeniya Kosheleva, or Genya as I grew to call her. She the most desperate of the seven professional working girls I was seeing, and the only one with child, the only one living in a bordello, trapped in part by an Uzbek passport, being reliant on her supposed pimp, Tregubov, my poisoner, for work permit and connections in that dark world.
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