My Poisonings in Denver in 2016 (Part 4)
A man I had met in Russia whose name escapes me from Boulder invited son and self to visit for a weekend. This to provide ample time for our FBI to go through thoroughly our flat to steal my notes on what had happened and to plant a bag of meth of which I disposed. The heat was slowly being cranked up like boiling a frog.
The FBI used a chapstick, covering it with an unknown knock out drug (which I felt immediately) so they might enter my flat 205 and remove me to flat 705. Whose door was suspiciously unlocked thereby allowing my supposed sleepwalking entrance. The tenants should have been frightened to say the least but were oddly calm. They chose not to call the police. I asked to see the videos as the staff claimed cameras in each apartment. I was refused. No proof of sleepwalking.
The staff claimed sleepwalking which I had never before or since experienced. Smaller tricks employed as well such as reversing our toilet paper rolls to instill in me that I was losing my mind. Another bit of gaslighting. That and infesting my closet with moth eggs to ruin my clothes. More classic gaslighting.
Later they smeared an unknown poison on a dishwashing bottle. Immediately upon touching it I fell to the floor feeling as though 3 dimensions had become 2.
I was fearful of arrest, underage son ordering and receiving drugs by mail, his use over my objections, these and other matters causing me to vacate CO until my court agreed year had passed in mid December 2016.
I visited our local post office putting in a 30 mail hold order. In 3 days it was returned along with more packages addressed to my son. This was big, this was telling. Still couldn't see the elephant in the room, the CIA. That came later.
I spent three days smoking pot, this legal in Denver to calm my nerves. Never left the apartment. Boy was I surprised when I received an email from a man I never met, US Diplomat in Residence for the Rocky Mountain region. His name Stewart Devine. His email claimed we met at a US State department job fair on my second day at home. He claimed that he wanted to meet to discuss opportunities for me at the US State department.
I, beguiled and emboldened accepted his invitation. His office at a prestigious Denver University. I dressed for the occasion, suit and tie, as I once wore in my working career and again at the Victor town court to accept the plea deal.
Stewart, a swarthy black man, retired army, so nervous, his 'tells' giving him away. He like me had little idea what to expect. I was confident as he had lied and I had not.
We were to attend a briefing he would lead. On the way to that immaculate conference room he came up with a feeble excuse to with me in tow drop by the CIA recruiting office to gather some papers.
Why had he done this. I picked up a copy of the CIA recruiting leaflet.
Had I so impressed them standing tall under the assault of narcotics and sex? My escape from Russia, from NY State? Was this a ploy to get me on board? A man with my intellect, skills and will, my causing them to use resource after resource in their attempt to entrap me into the role of patsy and having failed that then a full on coverup. Had this made an impression?
Stewart gave an excellent presentation to the 20 or so students at the lecture/conference.
I recall realizing I was older than all in the room, made me think. Was this for real or a distraction?
Let me digress. After WW2 my father remained in the Middle East getting picked up as a pilot for newly formed Alaska Airlines, they with the contract for 'Operation Magic Carpet' rescuing Jews from unfriendly nearby states. Again my father likely OSS.
Fast forward to my son's and my arrival in Utah, Salt Lake City. Even took my son to a Utah Jazz basketball game. We checked in at the downtown Marriott.
After seeing our room I returned to the lobby for some fresh apples. Much to my surprise ahead of me in line were 2 pilots from Alaska Airlines.
Here's the interesting bit. Their stay at the Marriott was a last minute corporate change. I recall being somewhat thrilled as my father, long passed away, had flown for Alaska Airlines as previously mentioned. I kept quiet and heard both pilots informing the hotel staff that they had never had such a last minute rebooking ever as they had expected to stay at a different hotel.
I thought. I was beginning to see clearly. Was this the CIA telling me in manner most deniable that my conclusions thus far were correct? That thought stayed with me upon my return to Denver, CIA brochure in hand. Were they seeking to employ me?
After all Russia friendly Trump had won election and I had then over 15 years experience in that far away land.
Was this the oddest interview ever?
My old man in the few months before he passed and before I went in the Navy told me how in a dark middle eastern alleyway he was attacked by an Arab. With my father then in his 20s had with him a lead handled walking stick.
Defending himself he struck the Arab in the head killing him. 20 year old men have no need for walking sticks.
In 2014 while staying with then Senior NCIS agent Doug Boyce in VA, Doug told me how it was common practice to carry an unassuming weapon in far away perhaps dangerous places. He liked to carry a baseball bat as he told me. If my father was OSS as I suspect this tradecraft had been passed generation to generation in the spy world. And so a lead handled walking stick.
He left the man dead in the alley and suffered no local consequences for this murder of a local.
Guns and knives required too much explanation were local authorities to appear. Walking sticks and baseball bats did not.
Had the OSS/CIA require of my father his first born son to feature as a patsy a generation later?
Did he know? I suspect he did.
I wonder.
So returning to Denver, my criminal record again clean though a set up through and through.
I got on the CIA website tears following down my face as I considered what my parents must have experienced in all those years we were a family.
My mother always said her hopes were that none of her children end up in jail. I always thought this odd as most mothers hope their children go to college. I put that thought away for years.
Was this why my father maintained his distance as I grew up?
Was this why my mother in her 70s was gangstalked to remove the temptation of rescuing her son.
I have posted separately on the matter of my mother's gangstalking in this blog. She was in her 70s.
There for you to read. Was this why she on my rare visits loaded me up with detective novels?
I recall favoring the writer Robert B. Parker whose Spenser novels I had enjoyed as a teen. I even once met him at a book signing where we shook hands.
Had she knowingly programmed me to do as Spenser did which was to move, to stir up trouble, to see what moved, who the bad guys were?
Was this what I had done?
I wanted to know. My believe in mistakenly rescuing 3 whores, even marrying a whore from the darkness of 90s Russia, had I been influenced by my mother taking me to see 'Man of La Mancha' and 'My Fair Lady' several times. Dulcinea. Miss Doolittle. My mind. And me in the role of Don Quixote flailing at windmills.
And so, seeking truth, my truth, with tears in my eyes, I applied online for CIA employment. Bastards. These boys helped kill JFK and helped pull off 9-11 and so much more in the darkness while we the masses fed lies and 'Happy Days' and hamburgers.
I applied not knowing were this for real or another misdirect.
The job offer shown at the beginning of this blog I believe to have been sent by a CIA front company.
I applied for a Russian visa and reconnected with my ex, she having failed to kill me from afar. We spoke by phone each morning, I sent her money by bank transfer for new tires for the Lexus 300 I had gifted her in our divorce most foul. This to indicate my good will. Nick played his part objecting to the gift so as to appear to be against his mother.
Then new 'friends' appeared at Skyline1801. A black bank executive sharing his pot loaded 'chillum' designed to trigger me to harder, less than legal narcotics as before. I called him sheriff, a term I used on undercover FBI agent Coy Ebell.
Through it all I had developed a sixth sense for deception, this going back to Russia in 2013 when I realized the 3 former prostitutes with whom for a time I resided. 'Street theater' all around and I got a sense for it.
Returning to Russia Svetlana used 'street theater' on me to push me to buy her the dacha she always wanted. Her tears fake. And me with my new laser vision seeing right through it. I refused citing lack of funds and damned if I were to put more assets in Russia only to possibly lose them as I had lost half my downtown Saint Petersburg apartment via that heinous divorce.
Her game continued though on the face of it we were amicable. Knowing her deception and intent I could barely bring myself to touch her. In short order we moved to sleep in separate bedrooms living more as brother and sister than husband and wife. Our two bonds, our son and that apartment once worth $1,000,000 prior to Putin's 2014 Crimean adventure.
In time another American in Russia likely CIA, Jeff Letino, ex-enlisted Navy like me, though him a submariner and me sailing on a guided missile frigate, texted me that a lieutenant in Fort Meade said they had enough staff in Russia and so it was all a misdirect to get me back to Russia where my son nearly killed me with a dual edged knife laid for him by his mother as they played a round of deadly 'street theater'.
I tried to be father and break up a fight between them. He struck me in the left arm. So fast. My artery severed. Blood gushing fast and thick in a fountain.
I told me son 'You've killed me.' Then headed to the bedroom shooting my life's blood as I secured a tie to use as a tourniquet.
As fate would have it I had bought an apartment a block from a Russian policlinic. I kept me cool. Unexpectedly I knew what I had to do or die. My son helped me with my sneakers greasy with blood.
Svetlana and I made it to the policlinic on time. My vision began to fade like a bad old UHF channel on a 1970s TV.
No fear. Just a sense of sadness I would be leaving this party called life. Svetlana and I in the ambulance told each other how much we loved each other and regretted so much that we had done and had failed to do.
Was she acting the potentially bereaved widow? Did she love me? These things I'll not know. Ever. Russian spies are not allowed such indulgences I suspect. But me I was honest as the blood drained from my artery; I loved this lying horrible mother of my son.
And to the police I claimed not to remember who had stabbed me or had I slipped and fallen. A father protects his son. Remember this.
The police knew and let it go. Funny.
There is far more about which to write. I'll leave it here for now. More to follow in due time.
Targeting. Corruption. Lies. False Death Threats. Imagine to live in my world from 2011 to now.
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