Fatherhood, the CIA, a plot to Kill Obama with Me as Patsy
The thing CIA underestimated of course was me. I don't mean that in manner egotistical, but matter of factual.
CIA had intended to make me famous, or more accurately, notorious, as is their want, as is it seems to me as had their esteemed and overblown sister organization, the FBI. And they intended to make me notorious as they apparently had many others, mass shooters, troubled men, bombers and the like. Names like Lee Harvey Oswald, Timothy McVeigh, Myron May, Ted Kazincki and others come to mind.
The techniques these agents and their apostles had used were those of gangstalkers, psy ops, active measures, NLP and more.
Personally I endured mobbing at least twice, home break-ins maybe a half dozen times, subliminal messages, some in broad daylight, others in the emails and facebook messages of people I had mistakenly considered friends. I understood how a man might be pushed, manipulated, moved to violence, to debaucherous behavior, and to engage in acts most consider criminal.
And these CIA bunnies, why they play for keeps. If I am correct, they likely murdered both my parents in manner most deniable, in hospitals where people frankly die all the time and without suspicion.
CIA thrives on deniability, seeks out the darkness, and is ruthless in getting all that they want, the only rule being for them that there are no rules, but one, and that might be don't get caught.
Had I caught them? You decide. I already did.
What was it about me, in my nature that allowed me to break free and to perceive more accurately the reality in which I exist and was gangstalked? A betting man would make easy money betting on the CIA. And yet they had failed. Their best feignt had been getting Omar Gonzalez into the White House with a pocket knife in the fall of 2014?
This just weeks after 40 unmarked FBI cars chased me from Virginia to North Carolina and back again and then all the way to western New York State as I it seems drew even with these bastards.
They had likely killed my mother, had let me hold her hand as she passed, for those bleak four hours in an ICU in Wellesley Ma and had pushed as a result my buttons leading me into a sort of depression unyielding. Concurrently they had a neighbor, a fat boy named Adam Stanhope trick me into inhaling the most addictive of substances according to the literature, and that is freebase MDPV, the sort of drug that removes inhibitions, and gives wave after wave of pleasure should you indulge your darkest fantasies. These two pushes on top of a very bad marriage, a million bucks in the bank, and a topped out career might have been, any should have been enough to make any man into the patsy they had desired.
I recall that international phone call with Egish Khachatrian in the summer of 2014, "Rick we will make you into this generation's Lee Harvey Oswald. We will get you and Obama too". And yet they hadn't. They had revealed so much, was their confidence so much? I suppose it was, as who was I going to call? Ghostbusters?
In that fall of 2011 when my mother died and I was tricked into sampling the dark pleasures of synthetic cathinones, the lure of a homosexual relationship with a drug dealer had been to me presented.
The drug dealer, a partner of Adam Stanhope's, a cross dresser and self admitted PV addict of six years, Mark Brady of Iron River, WI, had provided free of charge ample amounts of PV and another mind bending drug, Ecstasy or MDMA for two nights in a row, had had a pair of pink high heels in just my size along with stripper wear, so that all my inner fantasies might be brought to light and made alive.
I recall the temptation. The drugs so strong. The excitement so palpable.
And yet the thing that drew me away, that saved my life, my sanity, my soul, was that I was the father of a boy, my son, Nicholas James Macy. He was then a brand new eleven years old.
His mother unbeknownst to me then had a lover, a man who in August of 2011, a month before my mother died, perhaps was murdered, poisoned me, causing me to lose in one month nearly forty pounds. His name Alexander Valerievich Tregubov.
So we had the trifecta: 1. my poisoning, this a huge psychological push, causing thoughts of death perhaps in the near term to appear and be made vibrant, 2. the death of my mother, and all that her passing would in me trigger, and 3. the allure of a life unrestrained by petty morals, a life of indulgence, of drug fueled chemsex.
And yet, even though the CIA and their FBI colleagues had had what we call in NBA basketball, the 'big three', they overlooked perhaps that which in now in retrospect so plainly obvious. My son. My role as father. My horror at the thought of abandoning him. His mother had been a trickster from the moment we had met when she came knocking on my Russian hotel room door, when she prostituted herself for $100 and we began our affair. She had been later dishonest removing her contraception without first informing me, ensuring I sired a child as I pushed myself deep within her feminity. I recall those days, her deceit, my anger. Based on this betrayal I ceased our sexual relations, and in manner step by step, also assisted by psy ops, CIA and their Russian colleagues at the FSB begun my descent into massage parlors, then bordellos, slipping as it was into debauchery, which would manifest itself in the extreme after my mothers death and my introduction to stimulants, as I began video recording my sexual antics with women, later with men, and finally with gangbang orgies with self as the star.
Were I at Langley watching my antics from afar, I would no doubt think this tree ripe for the picking. They hadn't counted on the pull of my son, of the deep and relentless feelings because of this mantle, this burden for which unasked of fatherhood. And this also provided the largest clue as to the origins of my targeting.
My mother cremated, my introduction to PV and MDMA complete, cross dressing hooker clothes at the ready, and a drug dealing boyfriend in store, I had a choice. And it was no choice at all, though I recall thinking it through. CIA had expected me not to return to Russia, had expected me to remain in Massachusetts and to take the bait of sex and drugs baby. I hadn't.
Without pause, I went to Logan airport, got on the plane, and flew back to Saint Petersburg, Russia. I recall Adam Stanhope's unexpected and frantic call telling me that Mark. Brady, due to his ingestion of large quantities of MDMA in our two nights back to back together was in hospital. Adam begged me to stay.
I offered no excuse, refused and thought his call a bit odd, but wrote it off until much later, when in two years time he would admit to me his interest in me was criminal. He wouldn't tell me that he was in the arms of the FBI and that he had been working to entrap me. No, that I would learn on my own.
And so me having a son ensured that I stayed on the path though the temptation strong, that of sex, drugs, of a sort of freedom most middle class boys like me can only about which dream, being stuck in mortgages, 9 to 5 jobs, etc. Why was it that I felt so strongly that I must not abandon my son. The answer plain and simple.
My father had abandoned me.
Not because he wanted to, but because CIA had insisted that he must.
And so many questions of my lack of an active father in my childhood was now, fifty years later, answered. Much like God and Abraham and Isaac, there was a story of CIA, my father and me. In order that I be programmed as a Manchurian candidate, it was key that my father be removed, that I grew up as I did.
And yet CIA failed and in doing so, had unexpectedly revealed themselves to me. CIA. Me targeted. How odd. How unexpected. How truly awful. Obama was to be dead. I was to have been made patsy, sex crazed, drug addled, a misfit of society, abandoned my first wife, had been untrue to my second...
Now the question remains, how to take my story, in narrative form to others in order to reduce the burden that the corrupt CIA and their lords and masters, our elites play in this world. How to level this playing field? I've paid some dues one could argue, now it's time to effect a payback of sorts.
CIA had intended to make me famous, or more accurately, notorious, as is their want, as is it seems to me as had their esteemed and overblown sister organization, the FBI. And they intended to make me notorious as they apparently had many others, mass shooters, troubled men, bombers and the like. Names like Lee Harvey Oswald, Timothy McVeigh, Myron May, Ted Kazincki and others come to mind.
The techniques these agents and their apostles had used were those of gangstalkers, psy ops, active measures, NLP and more.
Personally I endured mobbing at least twice, home break-ins maybe a half dozen times, subliminal messages, some in broad daylight, others in the emails and facebook messages of people I had mistakenly considered friends. I understood how a man might be pushed, manipulated, moved to violence, to debaucherous behavior, and to engage in acts most consider criminal.
And these CIA bunnies, why they play for keeps. If I am correct, they likely murdered both my parents in manner most deniable, in hospitals where people frankly die all the time and without suspicion.
CIA thrives on deniability, seeks out the darkness, and is ruthless in getting all that they want, the only rule being for them that there are no rules, but one, and that might be don't get caught.
Had I caught them? You decide. I already did.
What was it about me, in my nature that allowed me to break free and to perceive more accurately the reality in which I exist and was gangstalked? A betting man would make easy money betting on the CIA. And yet they had failed. Their best feignt had been getting Omar Gonzalez into the White House with a pocket knife in the fall of 2014?
This just weeks after 40 unmarked FBI cars chased me from Virginia to North Carolina and back again and then all the way to western New York State as I it seems drew even with these bastards.
They had likely killed my mother, had let me hold her hand as she passed, for those bleak four hours in an ICU in Wellesley Ma and had pushed as a result my buttons leading me into a sort of depression unyielding. Concurrently they had a neighbor, a fat boy named Adam Stanhope trick me into inhaling the most addictive of substances according to the literature, and that is freebase MDPV, the sort of drug that removes inhibitions, and gives wave after wave of pleasure should you indulge your darkest fantasies. These two pushes on top of a very bad marriage, a million bucks in the bank, and a topped out career might have been, any should have been enough to make any man into the patsy they had desired.
I recall that international phone call with Egish Khachatrian in the summer of 2014, "Rick we will make you into this generation's Lee Harvey Oswald. We will get you and Obama too". And yet they hadn't. They had revealed so much, was their confidence so much? I suppose it was, as who was I going to call? Ghostbusters?
In that fall of 2011 when my mother died and I was tricked into sampling the dark pleasures of synthetic cathinones, the lure of a homosexual relationship with a drug dealer had been to me presented.
The drug dealer, a partner of Adam Stanhope's, a cross dresser and self admitted PV addict of six years, Mark Brady of Iron River, WI, had provided free of charge ample amounts of PV and another mind bending drug, Ecstasy or MDMA for two nights in a row, had had a pair of pink high heels in just my size along with stripper wear, so that all my inner fantasies might be brought to light and made alive.
I recall the temptation. The drugs so strong. The excitement so palpable.
And yet the thing that drew me away, that saved my life, my sanity, my soul, was that I was the father of a boy, my son, Nicholas James Macy. He was then a brand new eleven years old.
His mother unbeknownst to me then had a lover, a man who in August of 2011, a month before my mother died, perhaps was murdered, poisoned me, causing me to lose in one month nearly forty pounds. His name Alexander Valerievich Tregubov.
So we had the trifecta: 1. my poisoning, this a huge psychological push, causing thoughts of death perhaps in the near term to appear and be made vibrant, 2. the death of my mother, and all that her passing would in me trigger, and 3. the allure of a life unrestrained by petty morals, a life of indulgence, of drug fueled chemsex.
And yet, even though the CIA and their FBI colleagues had had what we call in NBA basketball, the 'big three', they overlooked perhaps that which in now in retrospect so plainly obvious. My son. My role as father. My horror at the thought of abandoning him. His mother had been a trickster from the moment we had met when she came knocking on my Russian hotel room door, when she prostituted herself for $100 and we began our affair. She had been later dishonest removing her contraception without first informing me, ensuring I sired a child as I pushed myself deep within her feminity. I recall those days, her deceit, my anger. Based on this betrayal I ceased our sexual relations, and in manner step by step, also assisted by psy ops, CIA and their Russian colleagues at the FSB begun my descent into massage parlors, then bordellos, slipping as it was into debauchery, which would manifest itself in the extreme after my mothers death and my introduction to stimulants, as I began video recording my sexual antics with women, later with men, and finally with gangbang orgies with self as the star.
Were I at Langley watching my antics from afar, I would no doubt think this tree ripe for the picking. They hadn't counted on the pull of my son, of the deep and relentless feelings because of this mantle, this burden for which unasked of fatherhood. And this also provided the largest clue as to the origins of my targeting.
My mother cremated, my introduction to PV and MDMA complete, cross dressing hooker clothes at the ready, and a drug dealing boyfriend in store, I had a choice. And it was no choice at all, though I recall thinking it through. CIA had expected me not to return to Russia, had expected me to remain in Massachusetts and to take the bait of sex and drugs baby. I hadn't.
Without pause, I went to Logan airport, got on the plane, and flew back to Saint Petersburg, Russia. I recall Adam Stanhope's unexpected and frantic call telling me that Mark. Brady, due to his ingestion of large quantities of MDMA in our two nights back to back together was in hospital. Adam begged me to stay.
I offered no excuse, refused and thought his call a bit odd, but wrote it off until much later, when in two years time he would admit to me his interest in me was criminal. He wouldn't tell me that he was in the arms of the FBI and that he had been working to entrap me. No, that I would learn on my own.
And so me having a son ensured that I stayed on the path though the temptation strong, that of sex, drugs, of a sort of freedom most middle class boys like me can only about which dream, being stuck in mortgages, 9 to 5 jobs, etc. Why was it that I felt so strongly that I must not abandon my son. The answer plain and simple.
My father had abandoned me.
Not because he wanted to, but because CIA had insisted that he must.
And so many questions of my lack of an active father in my childhood was now, fifty years later, answered. Much like God and Abraham and Isaac, there was a story of CIA, my father and me. In order that I be programmed as a Manchurian candidate, it was key that my father be removed, that I grew up as I did.
And yet CIA failed and in doing so, had unexpectedly revealed themselves to me. CIA. Me targeted. How odd. How unexpected. How truly awful. Obama was to be dead. I was to have been made patsy, sex crazed, drug addled, a misfit of society, abandoned my first wife, had been untrue to my second...
Now the question remains, how to take my story, in narrative form to others in order to reduce the burden that the corrupt CIA and their lords and masters, our elites play in this world. How to level this playing field? I've paid some dues one could argue, now it's time to effect a payback of sorts.
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