Confessions of a MK-ULTRA White House Sex Slave, ’81-’88
[CIA/DIA MKULTRA trauma mind control] author: Cathy O’Brien
The World’s only escaped MK-ULTRA Project Monarch mind control slave, Cathy O’Brien, who lived to tell about it. You will find below an eyewitness to high crimes including the following: federal governmental drug trade organization, ethnic biowarfare, and global government networks in Canada, Mexico, Haiti, Saudi Arabia, the United States, the UN, the Dominicans, the CIA, the United States legislature, judicial, and executive branches, and the Vatican — particularly active in select US states like Michigan, Ohio, Pennsylvania, Arkansas, Alabama, Vermont, and Tennessee. Ethnic bioweapons testing in Haiti for racial war and Catholic holy war purposes,
US plague delivered in communion wafers, see Iran-Contra and NAFTA from the inside; see Reagan, Bush Senior, George W. Bush, Cheney, Habib, de la Madrid, Salinas, Trudeau, Mulroney, King Fahd of Saudi Arabia, Baby Doc Duvalier of Haiti, Senator Byrd (D-West Virginia), Arlen Spector, Gerald Ford, Senator Leahy (D-Vermont), Bill and Hillary Clinton, Alan Cranston, Governor Lamar Alexander of Tennessee, Governor Blanchard of Michigan–all using these MK ULTRA sex slaves regularly; see Bohemian Grove details; many more users: Guy VanderJagt, former Governor of Pennsylvania Dick Thornburgh, Congressman Jim Traficant, Congressman Gary Ackerman, and much more.
|SUMMARY, BACKGROUND, AND REVIEW–BEFORE GETTING TO EXCERPTS:
MK-ULTRA and Project Monarch were revealed publicly by Congressional testimony in the 1970s.
However, their technical origins date from the Nazis in WWII. It was given authorization by Nelson Rockefeller himself [Thy Will Be Done book]. Through Project Paperclip, the CIA (itself only founded after WWII), brought Nazi scientists to positions of power in the United States and in its Intelligence communities. [Secret Agenda book, by Linda Hunt]. These Nazi scientists specialized mostly in rocketry and mind manipulation techniques. MK-ULTRA is the continual endless improvement of Nazi mind control techniques through trauma based conditioning. Learn what they have learned about manipulating human beings, from one of its victims.
It is far from an accident that the main locations mentioned in Cathy’s autobiography center on the sites in present day America that are associated with the places the original German Nazi Party Members were seeded: in the organizations and projects that became NASA and in the CIA and DIA’s psychiatric operations (Psy Ops), both presently institutional sites used to create mind controlled slaves.
What are these slaves used for? Well, they are used for a variety of things: pedophilia, pornography and bestiality videos, drug trans-shipment couriers, ‘carrier pigeons’ for mentally hidden compartmentalized secret messages only accessible by specific commands, rigging the betting on baseball games, and lots of sex. Oh, yes, and they get to star in snuff films for their 30th birthday when they are “used up”–where they are killed on film. Snuff films at age 30 seem to be the only official retirement plan.
This autobiography only corroborates information from the more well known Franklin Cover-up [book by Decamp] case about networks of high American politicos who are pedophiles and drug traders. That information fits with Cathy’s detailed information about the “ex”-Nazi networks of WWII that are consolidating power in America in both the left and the right sides of the political spectrum. Their aim, as stated clearly in the autobiography, is the establishment of a New World Order through consolidation of all drug and criminal cartels to fund its expanding “black” (covert) operations, and through the destruction of the nation state.
What is interesting about this book is that it names: many in the Congress, many on the left, many on the right, many overseas, many in Canada, many in Mexico, many in Saudi Arabia. The present and immediate past Prime Ministers (of Canada: Trudeau and Mulroney), and the immediate past Presidents of the United States (Ford, Reagan, Bush, Clinton, Bush II), and Mexico (from de la Madrid to Salinas, mentioned) are all involved in the pornography business which is combined with the illegal drug/sex slave trade. Their common object, mostly organized by Bush Senior (ex-CIA head) and his henchman Cheney since the mid-1980s, has been a destruction of shared North American borders through common “private” agreements with higher personnel of the three governments of Canada, the United States, and Mexico. This is to allow for the consolidation of markets in drug/sex/pornography funded organized crime. The organized crime is used to fund bases and projects used to facilitate wider private sector and military personnel penetration of mind control techniques through the mass media, and through educational policy changes.
Who can forget her descriptions of the actors involved and her direct experience with them in the 2000 Educational Plan for the United States, disseminated through the National Association of Governors which is mentioned in this book? And who can forget after this book that Bush Senior is very keen on leaving “no child’s behind unturned” to coin a phrase?
THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY NAMES,
NAMES: in the FBI. It names indisules in the CIA. It names the particular states of the United States in which this crony illegal Bush operations are most prevalent. Particularly interesting is how the country-music scene, centering on Nashville, Tennessee, is involved—because MKULTRA and drug transshipment people use country music and religious fundamentalism are used as a cover (and sometimes, to put it mildly, a ‘coven’ as well). Learn which particular country music star’s careers have been made (and ruined) through MKULTRA conditioning. Curious what goes on backstage? At Vermont’s State Fairs? At the Grand Ole Opry in Nashville Tennessee? At several other regular destinations for combined CIA “drug mule”, pornography, and pedophilia covert operations within the ‘public’ country music scene?
It is a must read. Please pass this email review along for all the ‘Cathy’s’ out there who are still smiling and being ritual, sexually, and mentally abused with electric stun rods to ‘compartmentalize’ their memories of immediately prior events as they move from trick to drug shipment in a timeless haze of trauma.
As said above, they are regularly killed at 30 years of age in snuff films, when they are (as the book puts it) “used up.” Cathy was stolen from her “handler” only days before she was to be filmed (killed) in a snuff film which she had described to her by the perpetrators involved. Despite incredible mental compartmentalizations and trauma (that temporarily left her helpmate in her recovery with his own post-traumatic stress syndrome), she recovered over the course of several years, writing journals and seeking help from those on the ‘inside’ of the intelligence community with information about her condition and the condition of her young daughter who was in the program as well.
The actors who perpetrated this clearly thought that no one could ever recover from such daily trauma treatments. However, her autobiography of her “lost life” in the CIA/DIA’s MKULTRA program is a sordid story. It begins when she was a child. It is a story that includes her daughter who was conceived with the very aim of placing her in the program as well. Her daughter is still being held illegally in the State of Tennessee (though she is by now in her early 20s) in the name of “national security”.
Beginning in 1981, she commenced being trained for “Presidential Model” material, a “Chosen One” as they are called. Cathy was stolen from the Project Monarch program in 1988.
All of the people mentioned in this book require immediate exposure by other brave souls.
I encourage you to pass this book summary along.
Cathy has passed along all this information herself when the book was originally published in 1995. In the back of the book, is a list dense with print: pages of names and organizations who have received this information? The book additionally reveals that there are those ‘working on the inside’ against these Nazis in the United States.
It is the aim of her book to provide wider exposure of their criminal, Unconstitutional, and anti-human rights behaviors. Project Monarch ties in so many other state crimes, and it explains their motivations. It shows why it has been under their ‘watch’ in government that drugs (and crimes associated with them) have skyrocketed in the United States, Canada, and Mexico. It is because all North American Executive Branches in Canada, the United States, and Mexico are part of the infrastructure of MK ULTRA drug-funded-sex slave trades.
Ever wanted to attend a “relaxing” party with Bush or Reagan in the White House of the 1980s? Ever wanted to attend Bohemian Grove and to know who all the other regular “Grovers” are, as they are called? Want to know what her mind control conditioning involved? How did it feel to be in such a condition? How many of them are there? How they are found and captured or raised from birth? Learn about how Cathy escaped, and learn how you may help identify those close to you that may be under MKULTRA’s spell. As well as what you can do. It’s all here.
Because of trauma-induced near photographic memory retention, this “feature” of mind control is manipulated and used as a benefit of the program itself to transmit top secret criminal diplomatic messages. As a result, you are in for some excruciating details and personal remembrances.
MKULTRA infrastructures tie together the sex, pornography, bestiality, drug trade, military armament sales, covert war, and covert operation underworlds. Read of Cathy’s courageous first step in dissolving this creeping Nazi cabal.
There is unfortunately only one alternative that faces all North Americans: expose these people, now. Pass this to any sane members of your local police, psychological professions, college professors, and particularly to citizens of Mexico, Canada, and the United States. Pass this to your Congressional/Parliamentary representatives, and in the United States particularly, to the executive, to the Department of Justice, to the FBI, and to the CIA, to let them know what is up, and to let them know we are watching—everywhere.
The wider publicity will allow more of those on the ‘inside’ who are fighting this to move more boldly against them.
If you really want to know how Canada, the United States, and Mexico have been run for the past 25 years—I mean really want some answers fast—buy this book. Actually, buy two books. One copy for yourself and one copy for a friend. I suggest this strategy because I imagine there will be some people out there who will be unable to handle this information alone.
For a sample go to the website, where you can read excerpts and several whole chapters dealing with Bush and Cheney involvement in MKULTRA.
The book has been published in 12 editions in only 8-9 years. This is a testament to its moving story of human courage versus the self-protective organized crime networks that that Executive branches of government in Canada, the United States, and Mexico have become. This is a real red pill. Below are excerpts concentrating on giving a general overview:
After several minutes of listening to details concerning a huge invisible CIA slave trade going on worldwide, the talk became more regionalized to Tennessee. I learned that Cathy and her little girl were victims of trauma-based mind control. They were slaves and the ‘soul’ property of my Uncle Sam. I learned that everything I knew in theory and application about external control of the mind was fully operational and encroaching on the private sector of society
I was growing numb. The first words out of my dry mouth were, “How would you spring these people out of it?”
He smiled and said, “I wouldn’t! What are you going to do with them if you did get them out?” Before I could answer, he interrupted and said, “Look. You’re still the same, but nothing else is with Uncle Sam. Now most of the CIA, FBI and the MOB (Mafia) are the same, and they’re making the moves on the military.”
Within a few days, I had played God and coordinated the move of Cathy and her 8-year-old daughter, Kelly, out of Houston’s house into a nearby apartment. All of this was totally unbeknownst to Houston. As instructed, I had deliberately placed the powerful coded suggestions into Cathy’s mind. These commands partially bridged her own amnesic true perceptions that Alex was going to kill her. Little did I know that the message I was provided to block Houston’s former control of her was true.
Cathy and Kelly seemed to me to be very disoriented and somewhat disconnected from reality. . . .
The mental health profession is in a state of crisis and has arrived at the proverbial crossroads of failure and success. The road to success through the application of available technologies appears to be blocked FOR REASONS OF NATIONAL SECURITY.
As a direct result of DOD management of mind research secrets and the resulting federal information containment practices, mental health providers are on the defensive with their patients, the courts, and more recently with certain special interest groups. These groups are attacking the mental health professional as a target for destruction. Well-funded organizations with very questionable agendas, such as the False Memory Foundation (FMF) and the Church of Scientology, have publicly denounced mental health as a profession.
The False Memory Foundation is a lobby group which is primarily utilized by persons charged with sexual abuse. The FMF is desperately attempting to develop legislation that restricts therapy for persons suffering from dissociating disorders as a result of trauma. This organization’s stated beliefs include that repressed memory is a myth. . . .To date, the model for developing an effective therapy regime for dissociative disorders (which are as a result of repeated trauma) has not been published by either the American Psychiatric Association or the American Psychological Association [Whose head, we learn is on the MKULTRA payroll, to stop any inquiries and to enforce the CIA’s secrets, with the aim of leaving all patients dissociative and uncured. If they were cured, they would talk—and talk as extensively as Cathy.]
Our first destination would be Huntsville, Alabama. This southern U.S. city is famous for its tourism centerpiece, the NASA-owned U.S. space and Rocket Center. The town also boasts of being home to more Pentagon, black-budget, U.S. dollars per capita than anyplace else in America. Cathy harbors a very different opinion of this town, its police force, and the NASA research facility. For Cathy and Kelly, Huntsville had been a place they were regularly taken to by Alex Houston for hi-tech torture and the production of child and adult pornography films.
This trip to Huntsville would be different for Cathy, except for one aspect of her previous experiences. Both she and I would receive our first threat to our lives in our pursuit of justice from law enforcement. This was surprising to me and “normal” for Cathy.
The lead-up to this threat began with my phone call to a Huntsville based legal aid group known as the National Association of Child Advocates. This organization publicized that it was formed through the leadership efforts of the local district attorney ‘Bud’ Crammer, who is known to his constituents as “Gun Ban Bud.” After supplying this advocacy center with Cathy’s recollections of her past experienced in Huntsville, we were contacted by two Huntsville City Police Department “vice” detectives. Their names were Jeff Bennett and Chuck Crabtree.
Upon our arrival into Huntsville, these two vice cops escorted us and our trailer to a local apartment used for staging drug buys. The place was furnished, complete with audio and video bugs throughout every room. When I asked Bennett if the “place was bugged,” he flatly denied it. From this lie, I knew with certainty that Cathy and I were there to be specimens for whomever to study. I knew “who,” and we gave them our best performance to mislead them. This action probably saved our lives.
After weeks of “delays”, the two vice cops sat down with Cathy and me for discussion. She supplied them a myriad of testimony including detailed physical descriptions of two particular perpetrators, their names, and location maps of where they lived and allegedly produced child and adult pornography. The two perpetrators, themselves Huntsville policemen, were also helpful assets in the campaign for electing District Attorney Bud Crammer. Their names were Audie Majors and Sergeant Frank Crowell.
After Cathy had exhausted all of her recollections, Crabtree and Bennett ordered us to “leave Huntsville now while we were still alive, and shut up if we intended to stay that way!”
Later, Cathy and I would learn that Crabtree and Bennett had notified every law enforcement officer in over five states to whom we had provided information. They reported that we were a pair of “professional con artist criminals.” . . .In addition, the Nashville office of the FBI was responsible for perpetrating Crabtree’s and Bennett’s discrediting lies. This FBI action ceased after resident-in-charge Ben Purser was told by a friendly district attorney that I now could prove the identity and prosecute those responsible for character assassination. The harassment stopped.
It is interesting to note that ‘Bud’ Crammer would in less than a year, be elected to Congress. Within months after his election, Bud was rewarded for years of alleged containment practices. Allegedly Bud has been covering up investigations for the intelligence community, DOD, and of course his number one financial supporter, NASA.
During this period, my life and liberty were threatened by the Nashville Metro Police Department. This verbal death threat was delivered by Metro Homicide Captain Mickey Miller and echoed by his friend and subordinate Lt. Tommy Jacobs. Miller said, “You best forget this woman; walk away from all this before your health changes.” Jacobs said, “There’s nothing wrong with that kid that her father (Cox) can’t fix. She just has allergies. You’d best forget you ever heard of either one of them.” I have all this conversation on audio tape.
Within a few months of these threats came others threatening both our lives and liberty from every branch of law enforcement within the State of Tennessee. This included the Nashville office of the FBI. The latter was in the form of a “clerical mistake” on the part of the FBI that was to be a “frame up” for my supposedly threatening the President of the United States, George Bush [Senior].” This charge was totally groundless and was subsequently dropped, but only after I secured a lawyer.
It was now 1991, and Cathy and I had determined that we must proceed with “phase two” of our pursuit of justice through a well-organized information dissemination campaign
Cathy approached me with an idea she thought could help us win public support. She had repeatedly commented that she wanted to rescue Seidina ‘Dina’ Reed, daughter of actor/singer Jerry Reed of Smokey and the Bandit fame. According to Cathy, she had been used repeatedly in pornography productions with Seidina over the years and had bonded with this once beautiful woman.
Seidina’s husband, David Rorick, aka Dave Roe, was then her alleged sadistic handler. It is noteworthy that Roe allegedly received his training on how to maintain a slave, using specific tortures, from Alex Houston. Roe lived and reportedly loved, with Houston before he met Seidina. Cathy and I naively believed at the time that Jerry Reed was not involved in his daughter’s enslavement as was Cathy’s father. Furthermore, we were convinced that Jerry Reed, with his numerous connections into politics and the entertainment industry, could be a powerful ally. This was not to be.
Within two months after the rescue, Seidina and her mother filed criminal charges, including sexual child abuse (of Seidina’s four-year-old son) against Roe. A “spook informant” working within the Nashville District Attorney’s office alerted me to these charges and the anticipated outcome. No action was taken FOR REASONS OF NATIONAL SECURITY.
Today, Cathy, Kelly, and I, and all true patriots stand at the proverbial crossroads of revolution or evolution. Through armed revolution, we patriots will perish and the emergence of a totally government controlled society will herald in another period of “dark ages.” As a proud gun owner, armed with inside knowledge, I know we are technologically out-gunned. Whereas if we choose to evolve through the challenges to our psyche that developed communication technologies present we can reinstate our Constitution and set our people free. Revolution or Evolution—change in life as we know it is inevitable.
Each of us must now take a stand to commit a portion of our individual time and diminishing resources to support the action groups and individuals who are not afraid to work at taking back our government through mass exposure of its crimes. We must seek new leaders who will be committed to doing the most with the least. These leaders share the battle cry that SILENCE DOES (indeed) EQUAL DEATH.
[This is Cathy speaking in all remaining quotes, which she assembled from her journals and selected memories:]
Many U.S. and foreign government secrets and personal reputations were staked on the belief that I could not be deprogrammed and rehabilitated to accurately reveal the criminal covert activities and perversions in which Kelly and I were forced to participate, particularly during the Reagan/Bush Administrations. Now that I have gained control of my mind, I view it as my duty as a mother and American patriot to exercise my gained free will to expose the mind-controlled atrocities that my daughter and I endured at the hands of those in control of our government. This personal view of inside the Pandora’s box includes a keen perception of how mind control is being used to apparently implement the New World Order, and a personal knowledge of WHO some of the so-called “masterminds” are behind this world of mind dominance effort.
Most Americans old enough to remember, recall exactly where they were and what they were doing when President John F. Kennedy was shot. His assassination traumatized the nation and provides an example of how the human mind photographically records events surrounding trauma. The traumas I routinely endured during my mind-controlled victimization provided me the latitude to recover my memory in the photographic detail in which it was recorded. The direct quotes I have included in the following pages depicting carefully selected events are verbatim. I apologize for any obscenities quotes, but this was necessary to maintain the integrity of the statements and accurately reflect the character of the speaker(s).
. . .
Other parts of my conditioned mind dealt with other abusers, abuses and circumstances. My father was (as revealed by my own investigations) apparently a multigenerational incest child from a large, poor, and horribly dysfunctional family. His mother earned a living as a prostitute for local lumbermen after his father died when he was two years old. My father’s brothers and sisters were all sexually and (occult) ritually abused just as he was. They grew up to be drug addicts, prostitutes, street derelicts, and pedophiles who also sexually abused me and my brothers and sisters. I developed more personality splits to deal with the traumas of these torturous relationships.
My mother’s dysfunctional family also appears to be multigenerational, but of a slightly higher socio-economic class. Her father owned the building occupied by a Masonic Blue Lodge he led, and managed a local beer distribution business with her mother after completing his military career. Together they sexually abused by mother and her three brothers, who in turn sexually abused me.
. . .
By this time, my father’s sexual exploitation of me included prostitution to his friends, local mobsters and Masons, relatives, Satanists, strangers, and police officers. When I wasn’t worked to physical exhaustion, filmed pornographically, prostituted, or engaged in incest abuse, I dissociated into books. I had learned to read at the young age of four due to my photographic memory which was a natural result of MPD/DID.
Government researchers involved in the MK-Ultra Project Monarch knew about the photographic memory aspect of MPD/DID, of course, as well as other resultant “super human” characteristics. Visual acuity of an MPD/DID if 44 times greater than that of the average person. My developed unusually high pain threshold, plus compartmentalization of memory were “necessary” for military and covert operations. Additionally, my sexuality was primitively twisted from infancy. This programming was appealing and useful to perverse politicians who believe they could hide their actions deep within my memory compartments, which clinicians refer to as personalities.
Immediately after my father’s return from Boston, I was routinely prostituted to then Michigan State Senator Guy VanderJagt. VanderJagt later became a U.S. Congressman and eventually chairman of the Republican National Congressional Committee that put George Bush in the office of President. I was prostituted to VanderJagt after numerous local parades which he always participated in, at the Mackinac Island Political Retreat, and in my home state of Michigan, among other places.
My uncle Bob helped my father decorate my bedroom in red, white and blue paneling and American flags. He provided assistance in scrambling my mind according to Project Monarch methodologies. Fairy tale themes were used to confuse fantasy with reality, particularly Disney stories and the Wizard of Oz, which provided the base for future programming.
I had personalities for pornography, a personality for bestiality, a personality for incest, a personality for withstanding the horrendous psychological abuse of my mother, a personality for prostitution, and the rest of “me” functioned somewhat “normally” at school. . .
. . .
My family routinely vacationed at Mackinac Island, Michigan which is a small island positioned in the Great Lakes close to the Canadian border. Mackinac Island, with the Governor’s Mansion and historical Grand Hotel, was a political playground where I was prostituted by my father to, among others, pedophiles Jerry Ford, Guy VanderJagt, and later U.S. Senator Robert C. Byrd. The mind-controlled part of me that was prostituted there perceived Mackinac as another dimension, the timelessness of which was enhanced by the island’s antiquated styling. Automobiles were forbidden on the tiny island, which relied on horse drawn buggies or bicycles for transportation. Once when Lee Iaccoca was attending a cocktail party at then Governor Romney’s Mansion, I overheard him comment, “What better place for auto execs to get away from it all than on an island with no cars?”
. . .
When Pierre Trudeau was elected Prime Minister of Canada in 1968, I often heard it said, “Pierre Trudeau is one of Ours, you know.”
. . .
I was slow to grow into adolescence. By the time I was thirteen years old, my breasts were tender and beginning to swell, which made me “too old” for VanderJagt’s pedophile perversions. When my father brought me to Mackinac Island for routine prostitution at the Political Retreat, VanderJagt introduced me to a new friend he had made now that he was in Washington, D.C. as a U.S. Congressman—U.S. Senator Robert C. Byrd, Democrat from West Virginia. Byrd had been a U.S. Senator as long as I have been alive, serving as Senate Whip and later as President Pro Tempore of the Senate and as the all-powerful Senate Appropriations leader. Byrd commanded attention and respect from all who came in contact with him, particularly from my father. When we were left alone in his room, he loomed over me in a threatening stance. His cold, blue slitty eyes locked onto mine. I undressed and climbed into his bed as ordered.
. . .
At the Opry, my friend and I sat in the audience watching as jack Greene introduced his “special guest,” U.S. Senator Robert C. Byrd. At the sight of Byrd, I went into a pre-conditioned deep trance and robotically went through the motions of following Greene’s instructions. Once backstage, Greene pointed out his dressing room, which he was sharing with Senator Byrd, and ordered me in. The personality that had been sitting in the audience had perceived Byrd as an entertainer and could not, or would not, think further. But as I walked into the dressing room and saw Byrd perched on the edge of the mirror vanity in his boxer shorts, I switched into the child personality that had known him as U.S. Senator on Mackinac Island since age 13, and responded sexually. Afterward, Byrd was claiming he as “his,” excitedly telling me that he had “always wanted his own little witch.” I soon learned the enormity of this statement.
Jack Greene’s band member, Wayne Cox, later told me that playing music behind Senator Byrd at the Opry was not the only way he “backed him.” He also backed him politically and in Freedom Train operations. Cox then made arrangements for my friend and me to stay the remainder of our trip at his trailer in Hendersonville, Tennessee. There was no choice but to comply. The following night, after Jack Greene completed his show at the Black Poodle, he drives my friend and me to a nearby after-hours club, the Demon’s Den. There, Cox was to pick us up and take us to Hendersonville. Instead, we were slipped a drug and taken “on a tour” of Union Station, Nashville’s then abandoned train station, where supposedly the only train still running through there was the Freedom Train.
Senator Byrd’s attempted cultivation of superstition through my Catholic schooling should have maximized the impact of the occult ritual I was subjected to in the tower of the old stone and slate turn-of-the-century train depot. But the pain and horror was sufficiently effective in itself—even without my adhering to superstition—to produce the intended mind shattering results. Cox took my friend and me on a “flashlight tour” through the rubble of Union Station, until we came to a homeless man sleeping on the ground. Cox ordered me to “kiss the railroad bum good-bye,” and then shot him between the eyes while I was still only inches away. He then used a machete to chop off the man’s hands, which he put in a zip-lock bag. He then led us up the rickety stairs into the tower of the old depot. There Jack Greene, his band members, and others dressed in black robes were gathered around a black leather altar in a room lit by candles and draped in red velvet. In total shock, I was laid on the altar and subjected to rape and torture while the participants indulged in sex, blood, and cannibalism ritual.
The next day I woke up on Cox’s couch, vaguely aware that I had suffered a “bad nightmare.” When I stood up, I passed out from blood loss. I was bleeding profusely from the vagina. It was all I could do to prepare to drive back to Michigan, . . . I did not know what happened to me, nor was I able to question it. I had a new “obsession” on my mind. I had been programmed at the ritual to move to Nashville and marry Cox, as ordered by Senator Byrd.
Back in Michigan, I made the announcement to my parents that I was moving to Nashville to marry Cox, as it was “predestination.” What they would not tell me was that my father had just literally SOLD me to Senator Byrd in an exchange for lucrative military contracts that made him a millionaire overnight—a millionaire on a sixth grade education—a perverse, child exploiting criminal, immune from prosecution, working as a CIA operative for the U.S. government! That mind shattering occult ritual I endured in Nashville marked a new life of wealth and prestige for my father while thrusting me into a new phase of my tortuous existence—and I had no choice in any of it!
. . .
It was 1977. I was a 19-year-old mind-controlled programmed slave in the CIA/DIA Project Monarch Freedom Train operation, literally owned by U.S. Senate Majority Leader Robert C. Byrd, who was then a 20-year incumbent and on the Senate Appropriations Committee. As Byrd’s “own little witch” (sex slave), I would also become involved in covert government operations. I now understand that this required more memory compartmentalizations/personalities than I had developed. Hence one more reason for the mind shattering occult ritual, and my “predestined” marriage to Cox. In typically Project Monarch structure, Byrd was my “owner” and in control of my life, while Cox became my primary “handler” and followed Byrd’s orders to ensure that I was at key locations and events at appointed times and to maintain me under mind control. Cox reportedly was not paid cash for his role like my father was. Instead, he either followed orders or would be prosecuted for distributing drugs and being the occult serial killer that he was and is to date. Cox’s primary role was to shatter my mind further through repeated occult trauma as well as father, my daughter, Kelly, to be raised in the genetic mind-control studies of Project Monarch.
I moved to Nashville, as ordered, to marry Cox, who took me to the backwoods of his hometown swamp in Chatham, Louisiana for months at a time for occult traumatization. Cox had been brought up in witchcraft by his mother, and admittedly longed for her sexually and ritually. Together they subjected me to their beliefs, which included what equates to a weakened version of mind control used by witches for centuries, anchored in superstition rather than scientific fact. These superstitious beliefs seemingly conflicted with Cox’s mercenary training to the point that his killing raged out of control. For example, Cox would murder a human through repeated stabbing with a knife, believing that the “departing spirit” and splattered blood gave him power to control my mind. In truth, it was my aversion and subsequent traumatization by the event that caused me to dissociate and trance, leaving my subconscious open to his suggestions and those of others. During the three years I was with Cox, he ritually impregnated and aborted me six times, consuming several of his own offspring and preserving the others shaped in ceramic for sale in his interstate occult body parts business. Cox’s M.O. for murdering always included removing the hands with a machete, as the “Hands of Glory” he kiln-dried in the ceramic shop of his and his mother’s house were in demand and thus distributed throughout the occult underground supply network. Cox’s protected cocaine and body parts distribution routes included Texas, Arkansas, Mississippi, Tennessee, and Florida.
Cox and I traveled to Florida on several occasions as his mother’s parents lived in Mims, which is only minutes away from the NASA Kennedy Space Center in Titusville. Cox, like my father, made sure I was there for mind-control testing and programming as ordered. Cox perceived me as a “Chosen One” and often used this CIA Project Monarch term when referring to me and for proudly “justifying” his leaving me at the NASA installation.
. . .
Cox demanded that I become a Mormon in the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints. This was to “prove” that Satan was everywhere—particularly in Monroe, Louisiana Mormon church where he led occult ritual, and in the Hendersonville, Tennessee church that so-called Freedom Train rolled through.
Cox’s determination to instill his religious superstitious beliefs in me was side-tracked by J. Bennett Johnston in his Shreveport, Louisiana office early in the summer of 1978. Cox’s mother, Mary, had driven us to Johnston’s office near Barksdale Air Force Base as ordered. As she knocked boldly on the obscure metal door, I read the attached metal sign: “General Dynamics Research and Development.” A smaller sign near the doorknob read: “Unlawful to enter premises without prior authorization. All violators will be prosecuted under penalty of federal law.”
. . .
Johnston took me the short distance from his General Dynamics Corporation provided office to the Barksdale Air Force Base airfield. He was apparently well known at Barksdale, and a small cargo plane was ready to take us to our destination—Tinker Air Force Base in Oklahoma.
Once we were airborne, Johnston accessed my sex programmed personalities for his own aggressive perversion. His use of cocaine further accentuated his hyperactive demeanor as he brutally slung me around the back of the small plane while he had sex with me. At one point the pilot hollered from the cockpit, “Hey, you’re creating turbulence. Knock it off, will you.”
Johnston laughed and responded, “What the fuck do you think I’m doing?”
By the time we arrived at Tinker A.F.B., my arm was beginning to show a dark bruise that extended from my shoulder to my elbow. A uniformed man greeted us as we walked across the airfield. Johnston apparently knew him quite well, and referred to him as “Cap’n”. . . When he noticed my arm, Cap’n reminded him, “Hey, that’s not necessary, you know.”
“Yeah, I know. Take care of it for me. Here… ” Johnston took the straps of my tank top and pulled them down around my forearms (which still could not cover the bruise). “There, that just about covers it.” He smiled and continued, “You look like a Southern belle that way rather than a damned ‘ol Yankee anyway.”
Cap’n said, “She’ll be a Tinker-belle by the time we’re through here today.” Then, referring to Johnston’s primary purpose in actually escorting me to Tinker he asked, “How are your South American operations progressing?”
“I’ve got to talk to you about that,” Johnston answered. The two talked as though they had worked in tandem on given mercenary operations/assignments in the past. “I may need a few of your boys to back me on something.”
“Back you, or cover you?” the Cap’n retorted.
Johnston laughed, “Both if you’ll front the operation.”
Johnston had previously “justified” his use of Tinker (Peter Pan theme) programmed mind-controlled mercenaries to me by saying, “Mercenaries are missionaries who follow their inner guidance system rather than their old Uncle Sam. Politics hinder the route to freedom, and these boys slip under international laws, undetected, to carry out the work the military boys only dream of doing… ”
. . .
I was with Cox on numerous occasions when he was running guns and/or cocaine, and activating specified mercenaries for operations as instructed by Johnson. In the course of these travels, I saw numerous underground arsenals and stockpiled weapons that were known to Senator Johnston but were not on military installations. I was also privy to government sanctioned cocaine operations.
On one such cocaine run in 1979, I traveled with Cox to remote areas in the Ouachita National Forest near Hot Springs, Arkansas to “watch for fairies like Tinker-belle” and “ride the light.”
We sat in the brush near a railroad track until we saw a light approaching from the Eastern sky. At the time I thought I was “riding the light,” as I was led to believe, but in retrospect, I recall my personalities being deliberately switched and a helicopter landing in a nearby clearing. Cox and I unloaded approximately 200-400 pounds of cocaine from the van he had driven, and stacked it in the helicopter. We were then flown to a small airport that appeared to be no more than a dark, fenced-in clearing where I saw a row of metal buildings that looked like mini-warehouses. While the cocaine was unloaded into a warehouse, Cox and I were taken by car to a nearby gray stone hotel. The driver led us upstairs and knocked on the Penthouse door.
“Yeah,” a voice answered.
“I got a Tinker-belle and a Peter Pan here to see you, Sir,” the driver called.
“Send ’em in.” Cox and I walked into the suite where then Governor of Arkansas Bill Clinton was shuffling through a briefcase. Clinton and Johnston were cohorts in illegal covert operations that emanated from Tinker Air Force Base.
. . .
Using standard. . .hand signals and cryptic language, he triggered/switched me and accessed a previously programmed message.
“Senator Johnston sent me to give this to you.” I handed Clinton a thin, large brown envelope. “And I have some fairy dust guaranteed to make you fly high.” I took the personal stash of cocaine that Johnston was sharing with Clinton from my pocket.
Clinton snorted two lines of the coke immediately. He smiled. “Tell Ben I’m impressed.” He showed me to the door.
. . .
When Houston became my appointed mind-control handler in 1980, Byrd’s influence on my mind boosted Houston’s “entertainment” career. His travels had expanded to accommodate covert drug and money laundering operations across the U.S., in Mexico, in Canada, and throughout the Caribbean.
. . .
After three more months of intense, nonstop tortures by Cox, I could not think to follow maternal instincts and barely knew my own name. I had no idea how old I was, where I was, how long I had been there, and what had happened to Kelly during that time. Kelly’s own testimony and current programmed poly-fragmented Multiple Personality/Dissociative Identity Disorder reflects the high-tech, sophisticated conditioning and torturous trauma she endured during this and numerous ensuing times that we were separated. When I was returned to Houston as orchestrated by Byrd, by brain contained a series of new compartments ready to be programmed and led.
Intensive mind-control behavior programming began at once, and Houston ensured that I was taken to my appointed destinations under the guise of his travels in the country music industry. In the early 1980s, my base programming was instilled at Fort Campbell, Kentucky by U.S. Army Lt. Colonel Michael Aquino. Aquino holds a TOP SECRET clearance in the Defense Intelligence Agency’s Psychological Warfare Division (Psy Ops). He is a professed Neo-Nazi, the founder of the Himmler inspired satanic Temple of Set and had been charged with child ritual and sexual abuse at the Presidio Day Care in San Francisco, California. But like my father and Cox, Aquino remains “above the law” while he continues to traumatize and program CIA destined young minds in a quest to reportedly create the “superior race” of Project Monarch Mind-Controlled slaves. I quickly learned that Aquino did not adhere to his profoundly professed occult superstitions any more than I did. His “satanic power” was in the form of numerous variations of high voltage stun guns, which he used on me regularly. Although Aquino used occultism (blood trauma) as a trauma base, his programming was high tech and “clean”—not muddled in a proverbial witches brew of ignorance. He quickly dispelled the Cox influence and began programming me according to Byrd’s specifications as his “own little witch” for sadistic sex, covert CIA drug muling, blackmail, and prostitution operations.
On the 1981 anniversary of John F. Kennedy’s assassination, I was forced to “marry” Alex Houston for appearance sake. Earlier that month when I had been taken to Washington, D.C. for prostitution purposes, Byrd informed me that I would actually be “marrying” him when I “pledged my vows” to Houston.
“It is a covenant between the two of us.” Byrd had said. ” It is me that you will honor and obey ’til death do us part.” Byrd then instructed me to pick up my wedding dress from a nearby D.C. store. Throughout the years, Houston often joked about the significance of my Washington, D.C. wedding dress—which was depicted in pornographic photos and a commercial video to “commemorate our wedding night.”
Alex Houston’s “best man,” Jimmy Walker, was also a photographer for Larry Flynt’s sexually graphic commercial pornography magazine, Hustler.
. . .
Houston’s booking agent, Reggie Mac (MacLaughlin), of United Talent and later of MacFadden Agency in Nashville, Tennessee had been booking CIA involved country music acts into key locations to aid the execution of covert government operations. For example, Houston’s ventriloquist act “Alex and Elemer” would be scheduled to perform at a country or state fair near Washington, D.C., where I would be picked up by car or helicopter and escorted to the White House or the Pentagon.
. . .
Senator Byrd wanted me programmed in such a way that he could decide if he wanted me to scream and cry when he whipped me, or if he wanted me to become sexually aroused and “beg” for more.
. . .
This is but one simplified example of sex programming, and I was programmed for more than sex. But this particular incident of programming at the U.S. Army Redstone Arsenal would change my existence entirely and set the stage for my role in covert government black, budget-type operations as a “Presidential Model.”
. . .
In the fall of 1982, Houston was scheduled to perform at the State Fair in Senator Byrd’s home state of West Virginia. Byrd arrived at our hotel with Lt. Col. Aquino, who took Kelly with him, supposedly for programming purposes. I was left alone in the hotel room with Byrd, whose KKK affiliation fueled his rage over my having been recently prostituted to black entertainer and CIA operative Charlie Pride. Although I had had no control over the situation to begin with, Byrd expended his fury on me rather than on Houston who was ultimately responsible for the incident. He took out his whip and began beating me as he had so many times before. Only this time it seemed to last forever.
Byrd was still whipping me when Aquino returned with my tranced and traumatized daughter. I regained consciousness enough to pull myself up off the floor when I heard Kelly’s hysterical cries. Byrd ordered me to the bathroom for a cold shower to stop the bleeding. My body could not carry out his orders, and I collapsed again in the bathroom, smearing blood all over the floor. Kelly’s cries again revived me, and I crawled to the door to find Byrd sexually assaulting her and Aquino disrobing to join them. One small window in the bathroom appeared to be a possible means of escape to obtain help, but Byrd caught me and knocked me to the floor. The whole bathroom was smeared in blood by the time he threw me into the shower and turned on the cold water to slow the bleeding.
Later that afternoon, Kelly and I stood hand in hand in the afternoon sun at the State Fair where Senator Byrd was about to make a speech to his constituents. My blouse stuck to my freshly whipped skin as Byrd walked onto the stage, and the crowd cheered.
. . .
Byrd monitored all of my programming “progress,” and often tortured me with his whip and pocketknife. He picked up where my mother left off, to destroy any self-esteem I might have inadvertently developed. He said, “There is no place for you to turn because if you could think to talk no one would ever believe I would have anything to do with the likes of you.” He often threatened me that I was considered “disposable” because, after all, “The first Presidential Model, Marilyn Monroe, was killed right in front of the public eye and no one knew what happened.”
Byrd’s threats and cruelty were unnecessary as I could no longer think to seek help anyway, but he loved to hear himself talk and would often drone on and on and on in his infamous long-winded recitations, while I was photographically recording every word he said. He detailed the inner operational structure of the world domination effort, including psychological warfare strategies, and explained how he had and would utilize his “expert” knowledge of the Constitution to manipulate it and the so-called U.S. Justice System, and more. His loose lips provided me yet another means of surviving and staying a step ahead of “the game” once Kelly and I were rescued from our mind-controlled existence.
Senator Byrd revealed his “justifications” for criminal activity to me as well. He used me as a sounding board even through he knew I was incapable of input or response. He rehearsed in keeping with his motto “The only way we can fail, is to fail to think of an excuse.”
Byrd “justified mind-controlled atrocities as a means of thrusting mankind into accelerated evolution, according to the Neo-Nazi principles to which he adhered. He “justified” manipulating mankind’s religion to bring about the prophesied biblical “world peace” through the “only means available:–total mind control in the New World Order. “After all,” he proclaimed, “even the Pope and Mormon Prophet know this is the only way to peace and they cooperate fully with the Project.”
Byrd also “justified” my victimization by saying, “You lost your mind anyway, and at least you have destiny and purpose now that it’s mine.” Our country’s involvement in drug distribution, pornography, and white slavery was “justified” as a means of “gaining control of illegal activities worldwide” to fund Black Budget covert activity that would “bring about world peace through world dominance and total control.” He adhered to the belief that “95% of the (world’s) people WANT to be led by the 5%” and claimed this can be proven because “the 95% DO NOT WANT TO KNOW what really goes on in government.” Byrd believed that in order for this world to survive, mankind must take a “giant step in evolution through creating a superior race”. To create this “superior race,” Byrd believed in the Nazi and KKK principles of “annihilation of underprivileged races and cultures” through genocide, to alter genetics and breed “the more gifted—the blondes of the world.”
As Byrd’s captive audience (literally), I absorbed information that the other so-called masterminds behind the New World Order would never have revealed for security reasons. But Byrd regarded me as “his” object, a game-piece that he could strategically move through life as though he were playing a chess game. He perceived me as totally under his control with no possibility of my ever being rescued, surviving, and recovering my mind and memory. Byrd likely would have talked to a post, and I filled the role of his silent sounding board.
My CIA Operative mind-control handler, Alex Houston was often scheduled to perform at the Swiss Villa Amphitheater in Lampe, Missouri, which is yet another installation where I was programmed. Swiss Villa was a cover for a CIA Near Death Trauma Center of which there are several across the country. It is a remote, high security resort, enclosed with military barbed wire fences, that swings its guarded gate open to the local public for country music concerts. The small Amphitheater covers the cover activities occurring inside, which includes U.S. Government CIA cocaine and heroin distribution operations and mind-control projects.
Swiss Villa, like the Mount Shasta, California compound, was also used as a training and operations camp for the Shadow Government’s paramilitary projects referred to by Senator Innoye (D.-HI). I learned that this not-so-secret military buildup, sanctioned by corrupt members of our government, consisted of special forces trained robotic soldiers, numerous black unmarked helicopters and the highest technological advancements in TOP SECRET weaponry and “Star Wars” electromagnetic mind-control equipment. These paramilitary compounds were intended for global policing of the New World Order through the Multi-Jurisdictional Police Force.
. . .
My public image was a programmed personality that always smiled, looked and talked like the proverbial “air-head” blonde that kept outsiders away by socializing only within my controlled environment. This lifestyle appeared quite normal for my role as Houston’s much younger “wife” in the country music industry.
When we were not traveling, I began each day at 4:00 A.M. which a minimum of 2 hours aerobic exercise. Afterward, I tended farm animals and did other chores, then cooked Houston a large country breakfast with neither Kelly or I were permitted to share. Houston would then order me to work to exhaustion on his 100-acre farm while he watched. These chores included hauling, stacking, and feeding out hundreds of bales of hay to our livestock each year; maintaining miles of electric fencing; cutting acres of grass with a push mower an average of twice weekly; busting concrete with a sledge hammer and mixing and pouring new cement; digging by hand and maintaining a two acre vegetable garden for canning; cutting, hauling, and stacking firewood for Houston, his neighbors, and friends; shoveling pick-up truck loads of creek gravel to fill in enormous potholes in the gravel road leading to 11 rural residences including Jack Greene’s; and anything else Houston could think of that would wear me down. Houston’s exhaustive, slave-driving work orders made my father’s seems benevolent in comparison. The “best” of days were rough.
I ate “like a bird (Byrd),” following Byrd’s orders of 300 calories per day—with no sugar or caffeine. My metabolism was low. I was trained to compute calories like a machine, eating more like a rabbit than a “bird.” I had to count every calorie, from a simple taste of what I had to cook for Houston to semen. Houston ensured that Kelly and I never got more than two consecutive hours of sleep per night. He accompanied this through automatic mental “alarm clocks” that woke us up at two-hour intervals—Kelly with asthma, and me with panic. These tactics contributed to Kelly’s and my total inability to resist mind control.
Traveling in the country music industry was no easier than existing on Houston’s farm in Tennessee. It certainly lacked the glamour that outsiders usually associated with entertainment industries. CIA covert drug operations had permeated the industry. Entertainers were used to buy, sell, and distribute cocaine brought into this country by the U.S. government for the purpose of funding the Pentagon’s and CIA’s Black Budgets. Nashville’s local government, from my perspective, was totally corrupted by these criminal covert operations. Cover-up, murder, drugs, and white slavery prevailed. Entertainers usually made it big only when they participated in CIA operations and/or were slaves themselves. I know of numerous entertainers in need of rescue and deprogramming from their mind-controlled existence, because it was discovered that voices could be harmonically tuned through mind control to captivate audiences. To quote my father, “Spies, like singers and actors, are made, not born.” These entertainers have endured much of the same programming as I to permit them to carry out government operations in the course of their travels.
Norwegian Caribbean Lines (NCL) cruise ships depart regularly from Miami, Florida and travel throughout the Caribbean and Mexico. NCL provides pleasure cruises to the public complete with “entertainment” like that of Alex Houston while carrying out CIA operations. Sue Carper, former director of entertainment procurement for all NCL cruise ships, would ensure that government covert activities staging were properly orchestrated. She rotated entertainers like Houston from ship to ship in order to avoid the scrutiny of clean U.S. Customs and Immigrations inspectors. I routinely took cruises with Houston, muling cocaine and/or heroin out of Haiti, the Bahamas, Mexico, the Virgin Islands, and Puerto Rico to fund covert operations. While I was robotically carrying out transactions as ordered, I was also prostituted to South and Central American drug lords and politicians, as well as filmed pornographically. Houston made sure I was in the right place at the right time and switched me into the proper mode for each activity I was forced to carry out. In the early 1980s, this included passing messages to and from Senator Byrd, Baby Doc Duvalier, my Cuban contact, Puerto Rican drug lord Jose Busto, and others.
. . .
The drug business was booming for the CIA, and the only “War on Drugs” I witnessed was that launched by the CIA against its competition.
. . .
An example of a typical Caribbean drug operation centered around NCL port of call, Key West, Florida. Houston took Kelly and me to a nearby tennis court under the guise of playing tennis. In reality, I was to meet with CIA Operative Jimmy Buffett, who devoted more time to the proliferation of CIA criminal covert activity than he did to his music career cover. Buffett was playing tennis. Referring to him as though he were to be my tennis instructor, Houston said, “There’s your instructor. As soon as he gathers his balls, he should be over here to meet you.”
Noticing us, Buffett strode over and shook hands with Houston. “Hi, Jimmy,” Houston said as though they were old buddies.
“Hi, Alex and Elmer,” Buffett responded, sarcastically using Houston’s stage name.
. . .
“What does it matter to you?” Buffett asked. “Uncle calls me Jim. I take it you’re not the contact.”
Houston pointed to me. “She is.”
“That’s more like it,” Buffett smiled. “A little Byrd told me I’d be meeting with a Diamond in the Rough. I prefer a Diamond in the Buff,” he said. “I’ve got a studio across the street.”
. . .
It was Houston’s G.E. capacitor scam that provided me insight into the elaborate Long Island docks drug network run by U.S. Congressman Gary Ackerman (D.NY). I first met Ackerman in 1981 when Houston was booked into the Woodberry Music Festival with known CIA-mind control victim Loretta Lynn. Senator Byrd proudly claimed Loretta as his mind-controlled slave and told me, “I literally made Loretta what she is today, and she is made to order.” Loretta’s son and secondary mind-control handler, Ernest Ray, told me, “I know what the Byrd did to my mother. I can get away with murder… All I gotta do is call him and I’m free as a bird/Byrd.” Loretta’s road manager, Neo-Nazi pedophile Ken Riley, who was also Alex Houston’s best friend, often assisted Houston in handling me. Riley in turn handed by Charm School programmed keys, codes, and triggers to Congressman Ackerman, who skillfully accessed my Alice in Wonderland mirror theme programming.
. . .
My mind-controlled existence became more complicated after Senator Byrd introduced me to the then President Ronald Reagan in the fall of 1982 at a White House political party. Byrd told me, “When you meet the Chief, imagine him with his pants down. He’s most comfortable knowing you are imaging him with his pants down. He doesn’t want formality.” Former President Ford had conditioned me to dread the Office of President, and I mechanically went through the motions of meeting Reagan
Reagan admittedly had seen the How to Divide and Personality and How to Create a Sex Slave videos made in Huntsville, Alabama. He acted very pleased with me as if I had participated in them willingly. Within the first few minutes of meeting Reagan, he was giving me acting tips to utilize in government operations and pornography!! “When you become your part, your performance increases, which in turn increases your ability to do your part—for your country.”
. . .
Reagan explained to me that illegal CIA covert activities I was forced to participate in were “justified” as they funded covert activities in Afghanistan and Nicaragua. He explained, “America’s Freedom Train is spanning the globe and sex is but a sidetrack to the ultimate course of freedom. Our job of procuring and transporting arms is the most difficult part of all. But it can and must be done. How can a man with no arms fight? These operations are necessary as American people raise too much hell about violence already, and it is better they’re not informed of our sponsoring wars they cannot understand the significance of.”
I realize now that Reagan twisted reality to fit his personal perceptions rather than to adhere to Byrd’s philosophy of providing “excuses” for what he deemed “the order of things.” In typical Reagan fashion, he did not perceive mind control as slavery, but as “an opportunity for those who otherwise would have nothing in life.” He claimed that multigenerational incestuously abused children like me, or “previously impoverished baseball players from third world countries and slums, are provided an opportunity to ‘be all they can be’ through making a ‘contra-bution’ to society, our nation, and the world, by utilizing their talents to a maximum potential.” With this attitude, Reagan displayed pride in the sick role he played as The Wizard of Oz, directing Project Monarch slaves like myself.
That night, Senator Byrd acted in the capacity of a pimp and prostituted me to Reagan.
. . .
Many commercial and instructional (private) pornography films I and others participated in, referred to as “Uncle Ronnie’s Bedtime Stories,” were manufactured solely for his pleasure—oftentimes according to his instruction, using Freedom Train slaves. After my initial meeting with Reagan, I was used in numerous films that were produced predominantly at Youngstown Charm School and/or by his “Chief Pornographer” Michael Dante, specifically to satisfy his perversions. These included a wide range of cryptic themes but were mostly bestiality. Reagan often watched the videos while I was prostituted to him, requiring me to re-enact the porn, however, possible.
I first met Reagan’s Chief Pornographer Michael Dante, AKA Michael Viti, at an elite Nashville hotel where he was attending “charity” Golf Tournament festivities. Like CIA Operative Charlie Pride’s Pro-Am Golf Tournament in Albuquerque, New Mexico, this “charity” tournament provided a cover for the cocaine and white slavery operations that dominated the event. Houston and I often attended such “charity” events, as did Dante, but it was only after having met Reagan that Dante’s and my paths crossed as arranged.
Dante took me to his hotel room after our initial introduction. He snorted a few lines of coke, looked me over as though I were merchandise, and accessed my sex programming. He then arrogantly asked me if I knew who he was. He told me he lived in Beverly Hills, California and made movies. I thought he was referring to his box office flop, Winterhawk, until he said, “Uncle Ronnie sent me. He wants me to make movies with you as your ‘contra-bution.’ We’re gonna have a good time, then he’s gonna have a good time, and everybody’s happy. You’ll like that, won’t you Baby? Get dressed. We’re going back downstairs and make arrangements.”
. . .
He often talked of owning me in the future, painting a picture of what life would be like living with him. His attitude toward women was typical of slave owners and handlers, and he often quoted scripture to justify his dominance. “No arguments,” “speak only when spoken to,” “take a good beating now and then just to keep you in line,” “see to all my comforts and housework,” and “be on call 24 hours a day when I need a good whore.” He gave me a slave bracelet—a trademark of his porn—and said, “A woman needs a chain. It’s a public reminder of total commitment and devotion. A reminder of the chain-of-command. A woman is tied to her man. No man should be tied to a woman.”
Dante’s Connecticut Italian roots are in the Mafia, and it was a well-established fact that organized crime and government had a close working relationship where criminal covert activities were concerned. I met many of Dante’s associates, and we already shared a few common contacts who were conduits between the Mafia and CIA. These included Congressman Guy VanderJagt, former President Gerald Ford, then Governor of Pennsylvania Dick Thornburgh, Congressman Jim Trafficant, Congressman Gary Ackerman, and Ronald Reagan.
Dante related to me, “When Reagan was Governor (of California), we went to Dodger (baseball) games together and sat in the Press Box. I got to know him real well and we got along. So, he and Tommy (LaSorda, Dodger manager and their mutual friend) and I would continue partying after the game. I brought him a few girls (slaves) and we did business. Really, Tommy LaSorda brought us together—you’ll like him. I’ll take you to meet him. We’ll go to games together all the time, every chance we get. You’ll love that, won’t you, Baby? You like a Press Box, Baby? Dick says you do.” I wasn’t surprised that Dick Thornburgh had talked about his previous, perverse sexual activity with me at a baseball game back East any more than I was surprised to learn that Dante knew Thornburgh through their mutual political and baseball ties.
Dick Thornburgh was Governor of Pennsylvania during my tenure as a Presidential Model mind-controlled slave. He used his influence to bring Houston into Pennsylvania state and county fairs year after year for the purposes of cocaine and pornography distribution, as well as for prostitution of me to him on a regular basis. Thornburgh was a heavy cocaine user, and was deeply involved in CIA covert activities—particularly Project Monarch. He was a firm believer in mind control, not only for sex training and government operations, but for sports. An avid baseball fan, Thornburgh had much to share with Reagan, Dante, and LaSorda.
. . .
My programmed mind contained a “baseball computer” that was created for Regan, and used by many including Thornburgh, LaSorda, Dante, and Zerilla (Thornburgh’s friend and Chicago Cubs Baseball Scout). It was packed with the kinds of statistics in which they were interested; the codes, keys, triggers, and hand signals of certain mind-controlled baseball players. Zerilla and Thornburgh were cruising en route to the Dominican Republic to the CIA baseball mind-control farm to scout out new slaves. They talked excitedly about the project of winning large suns of money through gambling on rigged games. I had been aware for years that many pro players, particularly LaSorda’s Dodgers, were mind-controlled and triggered to win or lose according to their owner’s bets and favors. The Dodgers, Reagan’s “favorite American pastime” baseball team continuously won, including the World Series during his Administration. The Mafia was in on the bet rigging, and information was passed to certain ones through Thornburgh and others as gleaned from my “baseball computer” programming. Having been out of circulation since my rescue did not preclude my ability to “predict” winners according to political favors: from George Bush, Jr’s Texas Rangers to the Toronto Blue Jays’ victory during the Canadian political heat of NAFTA.
To this day I am not certain who instigated the plastic surgery to which I was forcibly subjected, but soon after meeting Reagan and Dante I was scheduled for breast implants. . . .In the first commercial porn film Reagan had directed Dante to produce in St. Thomas, U.S. Virgin Islands my breasts were still tender and swollen from silicone implant surgery.
My appearance was not the only “make over” I endured after meeting Reagan. Aquino and I were called to Washington, D.C. to revise my base core programming to override Senator Byrd’s control for security reasons. Since Reagan had been shot, he took extra precautions to ensure his safety which included directing Aquino as to how he wanted me programmed. Much to Aquino’s dismay and embarrassment, Reagan admired the occult rule that this Army Lt. Colonel played for mind control traumatization purposes, as it fit in with the public promotion of religion Reagan had launched. Reagan claimed to believe that the masses were easiest to manipulate through their religion, as were mind-controlled slaves like myself.
. . .
My personal perceptions of history as it happened in reality remains somewhat distorted, as I had no access to “news” outside of my mind-controlled environment. In order to keep my memory retrieval free of contamination, I completed the deprogramming process before “educating” myself through books and news. I have since learned that what was reported as news was often distorted propaganda, and many events were never reported at all.
. . .
Dick Cheney cautioned me, “Sultan will be in Nashville having dinner with friends at the Stockyard.” (The Stockyard was a popular country music dinner club known for its CIA criminal covert activity involvement). Cheney glanced at the list on his desk and continued, “Among others, those friends would be (Mayor) Fulton and (Sheriff) Thomas. (Richard Fulton and his bank were under Federal investigation as of 1991. Fate Thomas is currently serving time in a Federal penitentiary for bribery and extortion.) They are considered a threat to the operation. They’re not discreet. Thomas in particular is not to be trusted—he’s an ass and too crooked. So, Sultan must leave the table before the message is delivered. Any questions? Good.”
I certainly had no questions this time. I did not need him to caution me about Nashville’s Mayor Richard Fulton whom Houston had prostituted me to, and Sheriff Fate Thomas. I had known the pair for years, had been cautioned about them before, and had no respect for them at all. Together Thomas and Fulton had indiscreetly perpetuated the total corruption that had permeated Nashville’s $2.8 billion country music industry, which ran the city of Nashville. They ran the business from a bar—the Stockyard—while they drank and openly used cocaine. If I had had the capacity to wonder, I would have wondered what a “Homing Pigeon” so critical to the conclusion of this international criminal covert operation was doing with such low level sleaze. As it was, I could only sense relief at not having to deal with them, too.
Prince Bandar Bin Sultan’s reputation for sex and drugs was widely known in Nashville. But much of my information pertaining to his activities came from one of my closest Project Monarch friends. She is an entertainer’s daughter who was prostituted regularly to Sultan when he was in town, which was often.
When Cheney was through with me, Byrd escorted me to the White House. . .
. . .
. . .Operation Shell Game was one of the more significant and informative covert operations in which I had been forced to participate.
My role began one cold, rainy day when Houston dropped me off at the Washington Monument where I was met by two agents, who triggered me to go with them by flashing their IDs. They escorted me to the large White House office where I had first met Cheney to “audition” for the Hands-On Mind Control demonstrations some years before. As usual, Cheney and Reagan were drinking, this time to excess for so early in the day. Reagan’s cheeks were flushed and his voice slurred as he greeted me, “Well, hello, Kitten. Dick and I were just discussing the plight of the Contras since this Ollie North thing broke out.” Cheney’s alcoholic foul mood was immediately apparent. He was agitated as usual at Reagan’s informality in my presence. Apparently I had come in during a serious discussion about Iraq-Contra as Reagan’s mood was more somber than I had ever seen it. He took a drink and looked out the window. “Americans believe in their country—baseball, hot dogs, and Ollie North.” Cheney snorted a laugh at what seemed to be an ongoing joke between them about “hot dogs and Ollie North.” Reagan continued, “And I believe in the Contra cause and all that we have accomplished. And I’m damn proud of it! It’s not ‘Law and Order’. No, it’s Order and the Law. Order must come first because, without it, law would be ineffective. Sometimes we must rise above and beyond the law to establish that order (he glanced seriously at Cheney)—or a new (world) order. As President, that is my responsibility. With order, through democracy by spreading democracy throughout the world. With order, there is peace. Right now in Nicaragua, the people are crying out for democracy, for peace, and I cannot turn a deaf ear to them. Not even in view of Ollie North’s troubles. True Americans know he is a hero. That’s why we must rise above the law to establish order by fulfilling the wishes, the hopes, the dreams of those brave men fighting for freedom by doing our part in spreading democracy.” Reagan was gesturing into the air, apparently lost in the poetry of his own ranting.
. . .
Cheney took me back to the White House office where we had started. He and Reagan shared another drink. Reagan patted my hair back in place where Cheney had pulled it, which made me feel safe somehow since I could not comprehend that he was behind my ordeal with Cheney. Reagan switched my personality to where I no longer regarded him as “Chief,’ but instead as “Uncle Ronnie.” He did this by reaching into his Jelly Belly jar and giving me one. Certain colors and flavors triggered certain programmed responses. Uncle Ronnie must have had other “Kittens” conditioned to the military green watermelon ones because he kept an excess amount of these in his numerous jars.
Cheney said, “How in the hell you drink cognac and eat those goddamn jelly beans is beyond me.
Reagan responded, “Well, Dick, you don’t have to have a Jelly Belly if you don’t want to. I was just giving one to Kitten, here.”
“Damn right I don’t have to have a Jelly Belly, but you’re going to have a jelly belly if you keep that shit up.” Cheney finished his drink.
Reagan chuckled, “Now, you know I watch my figure… ”
“Figure this,” Cheney interrupted. “What are you going to do with the Contras?” Cheney slammed down his drink and headed for the door.
. . .
At the end of the second hole, ex-president Gerald Ford said, “I’d like to have a word with you.” He took me over to some trees off the fairway and turned to me with his arms crossed over his bulging chest, raised himself up taller, and bore his shark-like eyes into mine. “Lend me your ear”. I had the Baby’s Ear Shell with me as ordered, took it out of my back pocket and handed it to Ford. He began talking as though I were a machine and he was dictating a message.
. . .
Hillary was fully clothed and stretched out on the bed sleeping when Hall’s wife and I arrived. “Hillary, I brought you something you’ll really enjoy. Kind of an unexpected surprise. Bill ordered her out of the meeting and I took her to my bedroom and made an interesting discovery. She is literally a two-faced (referring to my vaginal mutilation carving) bitch.”
“Hmm?” Hillary opened her eyes and sleepily roused herself. “Show me.”
Hall’s wife ordered me to take my clothes off while Hillary watched. “Is she clean?” Hillary asked, meaning disease free.
“Of course, she’s Byrd’s,” she responded, continuing the conversation as if I were not there. “Plus, I heard Houston say something about her being a Presidential Model, whatever the hell that’s supposed to mean.”
“It means she’s clean,” Hillary said matter-of-factly as she stood up.
I was not capable of giving thought to such things back then, but I am aware in retrospect that all Presidential Model slaves I knew seemed to have an immunity to social diseases. It was a well-known fact in the circles I was sexually passed around in that government level mind-controlled sex slaves were “clean” to the degree that none of my abusers took precautions such as wearing condoms.
Hall’s wife patted the bed and instructed me to display the mutilation. Hillary exclaimed, “God!” and immediately began performing oral sex on me. Apparently aroused by the carving in my vagina, Hillary stood up and quickly peeled out of her matronly nylon panties and pantyhose. Uninhibited despite a long day in the hot sun, she gasped, “Eat me, oh, god, eat me now.” I had no choice but to comply with her orders, and Bill Hall’s wife made no move to join me in my distasteful task. Hillary had resumed examining my hideous mutilation and performing oral sex on me when Bill Clinton walked in. Hillary lifted her head to ask, “How’d it go?”
Clinton appeared totally unaffected by what he walked into, tossed his jacket on a chair and said. “It’s official. I’m exhausted. I’m going to bed.”
. . .
Boxcar Willie was one of the primary ground level contacts that Bill Hall made after Clinton convinced him to cash in on the cocaine benefits of the country music industry transfer. Houston and Boxcar Willie discussed Hall’s lucrative dealings throughout the years in my presence while traveling the country together, billed on the same shows, including performances at the Swiss Villa Amphitheater. I had much contact with Boxcar Willie personally since my government sponsored cocaine runs often coincided and intermeshed with his. But I never knew Boxcar Willie as well as my daughter, Kelly, knew him. Kelly has named Boxcar Willie as one of her primary sexual abuses in three different mental institutions, and has voiced frustration at the lack of justice. “Why am I the one locked up while my abusers remain free?” she constantly pleads. I assure her I am doing all I can to blow the whistle on Boxcar Willie for her, and expose his role in transferring the country music industry to close proximity of the Lampe, Missouri CIA cocaine operation as outlined by Bill Clinton.
. . .
It was a sunny, fall day in 1983 when U.S. Congressman Guy VanderJagt met with my CIA operative mind-control handler, Alex Houston, my then 3 ½ year old daughter, Kelly, and me on the steps of the U.S. Senate in Washington, D.C. Kelly appeared familiar with VanderJagt, although I had never previously remembered seeing her in his company. Even so, I could not think to realize he was, in fact, sexually abusing her as he had me when I was a child. VanderJagt knelt on one knee in front of her to talk with her, assuring her that “today was a special day” because she would “see Uncle George (Bush) while mommy sees Uncle Ronnie (Reagan).” He stood up and took her by the hand, saying in Alice in Wonderland cryptic language, “Let’s go on an Adventure together” and led her quietly and robotically away.
. . .
Bush was wearing canvas boat shoes and a cardigan sweater as he knelt on one knee in front of Kelly on order to talk to her on her level. Bush used the children’s television program Mr. Rogers’ Neighborhood to scramble/confuse young victim’s (like Kelly’s) memory of contact with him and his sexual abuse. His physical resemblance to TV’s Fred Rogers was deliberately exaggerated by his choice of clothes and mannerisms, and is further compounded by his developed vocal impersonation. Using his best Mr. Rogers voice he said, “Come here, Little One. I want to ask you something. Do you watch Mr. Rogers’ Neighborhood?
. . .
Bush stood up and took her hand. “C’mon. Let me know you my Neighborhood.” He led her out the door.
Kelly became violently physically ill after her induction into George Bush’s “Neighborhood” and from every sexual encounter she had with him thereafter. She ran 104-6 degree temperatures, vomited and endured immobilizing headaches for an average of three days (as is consistent with high voltage trauma). These were the only tell-tale evidences aside from the scarring burns left on her skin. Houston forbade me to call a doctor, and Kelly forbade me to comfort her, pitifully complaining that her head “hurt too bad to even move.” Kelly often complained of severe kidney pain, and her rectum usually bled for a day or two after Bush sexually abused her. My own mind-control victimization rendered me unable to help or protect her. Seeing my child in such horrible condition drove my own wedge of insanity in deeper, perpetuating my total inability to affect her needs until our rescue by Mark Phillips in 1988.
. . .
Reagan said, “George is like a director. He makes sure the stage is set to implement the New World Order as I envision it. Then he makes sure everyone has a script and knows their part. He tells them how to speak and when to speak it. How to dress and (patting my head) how to wear their hair. He gets everything and everyone in place and hollers, “Action!” Reagan shouted through his hand as though it were a megaphone and rambled on, “All the world’s a stage. I’m the Wizard. But he is directing the show so you better pay attention and learn your part well from him.”
Cheney interrupted, “George and I will be working closely on a few projects together, and when you see him, you’ll see me. When you’re given orders from him, you’re given orders from me.
“She knows the chain of command, Dick,” Reagan injected, referring to his perception of who was in charge, and in what order. President, Vice President, Habib, Cheney, Byrd, etc. may have been the chain of command in Reagan’s mind, but Cheney’s definition was necessary to my understanding. From my perspective, the chain of command was clearly Bush, Cheney, Habib, Reagan, Aquino and lastly, on a par with my handler Houston, Byrd, all of which was subject to change at any given moment. Cheney just rolled his eyes at Reagan’s comment and never slowed down as he continued. “Right now a stage is being set and you will be directed by the Vice President on just how he wants you to do your part in setting the stage for Mexico’s role in the New World Order.”
. . .
Bush slipped back into the meeting, without Kelly. Cheney continued, “Taking orders from me and your new director—the Vice President. Lesson number one. You know what Miami Vice is. Undercover drug agents taking control of the drug industry. A Vice President is just that—an undercover drug agent taking control of the drug industry—for the President.”
Bush spoke up. “Mexico is a problem. They’ve got lots of drugs, but not the brains nor the means to sell it outside their own country. So how can we take control of their (growing) drug industry when we can’t even get our hands on it? It’s your duty as an American citizen to open the routes and initiate freedom from poverty throughout their nation by offering them cash as a means of enticing their drug industry right into our grasp by bringing it right up to our doorsteps.”
“Operation Greenbacks for Wetbacks,” Cheney said, laughing. Bush laughed with him.
Bush regained his composure to conclude,” You’re assignment begins in Miami with NCL (Norwegian Caribbean Lines) and ends with your return from Mexico with word of success.”
. . .
I left the White House with a message for the Vice President of Mexico, Carlos Salinas de Gortari, from the Vice President of the U.S., and with one very sick child.
. . .
It was my understanding then that the North American Free Trade Agreement was considered a significant step in implementing the New World Order through mind manipulation of the masses. According to Byrd, propaganda disguising the true purpose of NAFTA included the concept of “free trade” which the U.S. and Mexican governments had long since shared. “Free trade” of child and adult mind-controlled slaves, cocaine, heroin, and business has been not-so-secretly proliferating for years. My own father joined the “run for the border” via U.S. State Department and Mexican subsidized business incentives and opened yet another branch of his U.S. Department of Defense-given-business in Mexico. This was part of the “free trade” agreement that I know personally to have been operating smoothly since 1984. In an effort to maintain the illusion that the agreement would not create a negative economic imbalance between Mexico and the U.S., tourist areas of Mexico were deliberately built up, enhanced and Americanized with U.S. dollars. These funds were provided through CIA covert Black Budget operations of drug and slave trading, as well as directly through the Senate Appropriations Committee of which Senator Robert C. Byrd is chairman as of this writing.
. . .
Senator Byrd claimed “the money game is simply a game of control,” and lives by his adopted Golden Rule of “he who holds the gold makes the rules.” He told me in so many words that “by appropriating funds to all (viable) projects ushering in the free trade agreement and allocating lesser amounts to U.S. social systems such as our ‘criminal’ justice system, I control our country and our place in world markets. All the world is a stage, and I own the theater! You can bank on it!”
Senator Byrd’s twisted reality echoed in my mind when America was bought (stolen) and sold by Presidents Bush and Clinton in the recent passage of NAFTA.
. . .
Although President de la Madrid was considered by Bush to be the stepping stone to the ultimate reign of Salinas/Bush’s (already established diplomatic relations, he was regarded with all due respect in a manner conductive to “no margins for error.” His full cooperation was tantamount to establishing Bush’s and Salinas’ goals via free flowing drug markets and Mexico’s cooperation in subversively funding and supplying Reagan’s Nicaraguan Contras. De la Madrid worked in close association with Salinas so that a smooth transition of power would maintain U.S.-Mexican relations and efforts already in place. (Is it any wonder that Jeb Bush and George W. Bush were later placed as Governors of Texas and Florida, U.S.-Mexican “border states” to Mexico and the Caribbean, to utilize and maintain these drug U.S.-Mexican drug trade contacts organized by their father Bush Senior with Salinas from the 1980s?)
. . .
I set the suitcase in front of Salinas and began relaying the message I had been programmed to deliver.
“I have a message from the Vice President of the United States of America to our neighbors in Mexico. America is willing to share its wealth through a trade agreement with Mexico. We’ll trade our cash for control over Mexico’s cocaine and heroin production. By controlling your drug industry, we can open the border between our countries to allow a free flow of cocaine and heroin into the U.S., bought and paid for in American dollars to build Mexico. Eventually, this could dissolve the border between our countries altogether as Mexico’s economy grows to match ours. If we begin today, this dream could be realized by the turn of the century—sharing the same continent, sharing the same wealth. Why? The drug industry already dictates what the Mexican government can or cannot do. By giving the U.S. control of your drug industry, Mexico regains control over her government. Re-established power backed by U.S. dollars will bring Mexico on an economic par with America. We can begin by spreading the word through the (drug) cartels that the U.S. is covertly willing to open the borders to free drug trade by making agents available to show you the passage and routes through which the drugs are to be delivered. Only U.S. agents can bring Mexican heroin and (South American) cocaine across the border, and likewise, they will bring the cash in. Explain to those select few who control the drug empires that the cruise line (NCL) agreement is going into a mass expansion, tearing down the border between our countries enough to allow for as many drugs to come in as Mexico can deal out. When do we begin? Immediately. The cash is at hand. (I gestured toward the suitcase which Salinas unzipped to find full of cash.) Deliver whatever amount of brown heroin you have at hand as a means of confirmation of the agreement. Keep the change as a token of the change and good fortune that has befallen Mexico from its neighboring nation.”
As I finished Bush’s message, Salinas immediately took a note pad from the desk and scrawled a quick note. He passed it to a guard who was stationed at the door. He stood up, smiled, and leaned over his desk as he extended his hand in a warm handshake. I was escorted out. Houston found me on the front steps of the installation and together we were escorted through the barbed wire fences and back onto the streets of Cancun.
. . .
Throughout my tenure as a Presidential Model mind-controlled slave, I was provided specific books according to Bush’s program. These books, delivered through pre-established channels such as Ken Riley, Alex Houston, and even Ronald Reagan, came complete with specific commands on how they were to be interpreted and used. Some books were used to instruct me on operations; some were an attempt to scramble my memory with fantasy; others were used to load my mind with pertinent data such as bank account passport numbers, and so on.
. . .
Additionally, California’s 24-year incumbent Senator Alan Cranston of the Select Committee on Intelligence has perpetuated this trauma base for decades, as have others.
. . .
By the time I had finished reading the last page of his About Faces book, I was so traumatized I instantly “became what I read” when I read the last verse aloud as ordered:
I am a True Patriot living an American Dream,
. . .
Occasionally our travels would take us to Michigan, where Houston made certain we stayed with my family. Trips to my father’s house were devastating but informative. My mother had developed deep, psychological scars above and beyond her own MPD condition and became an insomniac. My father by this time was routinely traveling to London, Germany, and Mexico, and taking the family to Florida’s Disney World and Washington, D.C. My older brother, Bill, still worked for and with my father, traveled with him annually to “hunt” in Cheney’s Greybull, Wyoming lodge, and maintained his wife and three children under trauma-base mind control according to front some of my father’s and Uncle Bob Tanis’ lucrative porn business. My sister, Kelli Jo, became a belly dancing contortionist excelling in “gymnastics” since she became “as flexible as Gumby” according to her prostitute programming. She worked her way through school in children’s day-care centers, admittedly spotting, for my father, abused children for potential “chosen ones” candidates. In 1990, she graduated to open a licensed day-care, “Little Learners” in Grand Haven, Michigan for my father. My brother, Tom (Beaver), is a Compu-Kids (CIA Project) programmed computer genius.
. . .
Nor could I have appeared “normal” to outsiders had they cared to see beyond my superficial programmed cover personality. I did have occasion to mix with “outsiders” at the local library where I took Kelly for her books on days when we were not traveling. By age 6, she tested at the 7th-grade reading level.
. . .
My “religious fanatic” cover personality was cultivated at the Brentwood, Tennessee Lord’s Chapel “nondenominational” (Pentecostal) church, through the CIA Operative preacher “Reverend” Billy Roy Moore (who has since fled to Arkansas due to a local murder scandal).
Moore transported cocaine from the Caribbean for the CIA, at least during the Reagan Administration, under the guise of so-called “missions,” i.e., Christian ministries. It most likely was not the intent of the Christians dedicated to their Caribbean ministries to be used by the CIA and Moore to inadvertently mule drugs into our country. Even CIA agents operating under “need to know” partial information were denied the full scope of what they were actually participating in. Many seemingly willing participants were manipulated, provided “justification,” and deliberately misled to believe they were serving their country, rather than destroying it from the inside out.
. . .
Jimmy Walker, the same photographer who had taken pornographic “wedding night” pictures for Larry Flynt, recently had other photographs of me published in Hustler. When Dante found out, he was furious. Larry Flint and Dante both worked for the CIA, had Vatican and Mafia connections, and deliberately appealed to Reagan’s perversions using Project Monarch Mind-Controlled slaves. What Flynt could not publish, Dante ran through the underground.
. . .
Michael Dante’s pornographic filming abilities served several purposes. Aside from producing porn according to Reagan’s own (well known) perversions and instructions, Dante was present during may key international government “gatherings.” Oftentimes when I and others were prostituted to various government (New World Order) leaders, Dante had hidden cameras filming perverse sexual acts apparently for future blackmail leverage. . .Dante turned the videos over to Reagan, and covertly kept copies to protect himself. Dante converted a small room of his Beverly Hills mansion into a security vault, where he kept his personal copies of the international blackmail porn takes there
Among these internationally scandalous tapes are numerous videos covertly produced at the supposedly secure political sex playground in northern California, Bohemian Grove.
I was programmed and equipped to function in all rooms of Bohemian Grove in order to compromise specific government targets according to their personal perversions. “Anything, anytime, anywhere with anyone” with my mode of operation at the Grove. I do not purport to understand the full function of this political cesspool playground as my perception was limited to my own realm of experience. My perception is that Bohemian Grove serves those ushering in the New World Order through mind control, and consists primarily of the highest Mafia and U.S. Government officials. I do not use the term “highest” loosely, as copious quantities of drugs were consumed there.
. . .
The only business conducted there pertained to implementing the New World Order, through the proliferation of mind-control atrocities. The only room where business discussions were permitted was the small, dark lounge affectionately and appropriately referred to as the Underground.
Sex slaves were not routinely permitted in the Underground for security reasons, leaving the lounge’s small stage as the only source of “entertainment.” This entertainment ranged from would-be talents such as Lee Atwater, Bill Clinton, and George Bush to CIA Operative entertainers such as Boxcar Willie and Lee Greenwood. On one occasion I was instructed to meet with former President Gerald Ford in the Underground where Lee Atwater was picking and singing. As I walked through the smoke-filled room to Ford’s table, Atwater interrupted his song to cryptically acknowledge my unwelcome presence by singing choruses of “Over the Rainbow” and Byrd’s song for me “Country Roads” while emphasizing the lines of “Almost heaven, West Virginia.”
My purpose at the Grove was sexual in nature, and therefore my perceptions were limited to a sex slave’s viewpoint. As an effective means of control to ensure undetected proliferation of their perverse indulgences, slaves such as myself were subjected to ritualistic trauma. I knew each breach I took could be my last, as the threat of death lurked in every shadow. Slaves of advancing age or with failing programming were sacrificially murdered “at random” in the wooded grounds of Bohemian Grove, and I felt it was “simply a matter of time until it would be me.” Rituals were held at a giant, concrete owl monument on the banks of, ironically enough, the Russian (rushin’) River. These occultish sex rituals stemmed from the scientific belief that mind-controlled slaves required severe trauma to ensure compartmentalization of the memory, and not from any spiritual motivation.
My own threat of death was instilled when I witnessed the sacrificial death of a young, dark-haired victim at which time I was instructed to perform sexually “as though my life depended on it.”
. . .
From the owl’s roost to the necrophilia room, no memory of sexual abuse is as horrifying as the conversations overheard in the Underground pertaining to implementing the New World Order. I learned the perpetrators believed that controlling the masses through propaganda mind manipulation did not guarantee there would be a world left to dominate due to environmental and overpopulation problems. The solution being debated was not pollution/population control, but mass genocide of “selected undesirables.”
. . .
Anyone attending the Bohemian Grove on a regular basis was referred to by those in the know as a “Grover.” One such Grover was Ronald Reagan’s then-Secretary of Education, Bill Bennett. Bill Bennett, who later became “Drug Czar” during the Bush Administration, wrote the so-called Book of Virtues and was/is? Vying for the office of President. Bennett is apparently very close to his brother and fellow Grover, Bob Bennett. Although Bob Bennett holds the position of Legal Counsel to President Clinton, it is apparent that the brothers recognize no party lines.
It was clear to me that there were no partisan differences amongst those ushering in the New World Order, any more than there was loyalty to our Constitution. The close relationship I witnessed between the Bennett brothers, like the marriage between Clinton’s and Bush’s 1992 campaign managers James Carville and Mary Matlin, should raise questions as to their agenda.
When Bill and Bob Bennett together sexually assaulted my daughter, Kelly, and me at the Bohemian Grove in 1986, I had already known Bill Bennett as a mind-control programmer for some time.
. . .
Bennett manipulated my perceptions until, at last, he informed me. “You and I will be working closely together on a global education project.” Sweeping his hand around the crowded room, he continued, “This atmosphere is not conducive to the kind of work we need to be doing. . . .Let’s complete tonight’s business with pleasure. . .
. . .
In one of many White House bedrooms available for such purposes, Bennett led me into bed. “I told you we were going to beat it out of this dimension, and that’s exactly what I intend to do. A little Byrd told me you like a whip. Since I am not the Senate kind, I’ll just represent the majority by giving you what you need most.”
Bennett apparently found perverse pleasure in whipping me. With my wrists bruised and my body stinging with pain, Bennett lit up a cigarette. . .
. . .
Reagan was dressed in a dark, navy blue suit and red silk tie. His red rosebud boutonniere instantly triggered me into Jesuit “Order of the Rose” sex slave mode. “Well, hello, Kitten,” Reagan said, blowing his cognac breath in my face as he bent over to kiss my hand.
“Uncle Ronnie… ” I said, sexually responding as conditioned.
Reagan turned to the man beside him and said, “Brian, this is one more of those benefits of the New World Order I was telling you about. Kitten, this is Brian Mulroney, Prime Minister of Canada.”
The connotations of my childhood experience with the former Prime “Minister” of Canada, Pierre Trudeau, suggested that Mulroney was Jesuit—as did the mode I was operating in. He, too, was wearing a red rose boutonniere signifying his involvement and commitment to the Order of the Rose.
. . .
Expertly using Order of the Rose signals and triggers, Mulroney said, “Just give me the key to her heart, and she’s mine.”
“You are wise to the ways of the world,” Reagan commented.
“I have to be on top of things. It’s a New World Order,” Mulroney said matter-of-factly.
As a guard led me away, I heard Reagan tell Mulroney, “You will be on top of the world soon.”
I was searched by uniformed Canadian bodyguards and pointed in the direction of one of the White House’s many bedroom suites. When I opened the door, I saw three blonde sex slaves undressing and preparing the bed—one of whom was my close friend and Senator Arlen Spector’s slave.
. . .
“Hell girls! It is a small world!” Mulroney entered and strode across the room, tossing his coat on a chair and loosening his tie.
. . .
In retrospect, I know it was no coincidence that my friend and I were brought together to satisfy Brian Mulroney’s perversion for mind-controlled slaves. Identically mirror programmed, we operated in unison. The delicate red rose tattoo on my friend’s left wrist signified her enslavement to the (New World) Order of the Rose to which Mulroney belonged.
. . .
My programmed role toward implementing Education 2000 according to the plans of those ushering in the New World Order brought me back in contact with former Governor of Tennessee, Lamar Alexander, and eventually Canadian Prime Minister Brian Mulroney.
I had met Lamar Alexander in 1978, at a satanic ritual I was subjected to in an affluent neighborhood of Nashville, Tennessee. Lamar Alexander presided over this sex-oriented occult ritual with full understanding of my Project Monarch Mind-Control victimization and the impact of his actions were having on my mind. It was my experience then, and intermittently through the years, that Lamar Alexander’s sexual perversion was to bring his victim to the point of death through oral suffocation.
. . .
Lamar Alexander, who followed Bennett as Bush’s Secretary of Education, worked in close association with Bill Bennett to manipulate the minds of the masses to accept Education 2000 as the ONLY means of educational reform. When Ned McWherter was moved into the office of Governor to rubber stamp federal projects, Lamar Alexander maintained influence over state politics. At the same time, he maintained influence over national politics through his role as chairman of the National Governor’s Association in 1986.
As the 1984 Governor’s Convention drew near, I met with Lamar Alexander at the Stockyard nightclub where he was drinking with his long time associate and partner-in-crime, Nashville’s Mayor Richard Fulton. In the basement bar of this old, converted stockyard was a modified antique “Shoe Shine” booth, where the term took on a new meaning. A key to a private shoeshine booth could be obtained by those in the know through Stockyard owner, Buddy Killen. This closet-sized booth was lined with mirrors and had a small bench where Lamar Alexander sat after our business was concluded. I knelt at his feet as ordered to perform oral sex. Programmed sex slaves such as myself were trained to go long periods of time without drawing a breath, and users such as Alexander stretched this time to the maximum.
On this occasion, Alexander apparently exceeded the maximum. I do not recall completion of my programmed task. It was afterhours when my mind-control handler, Alex Houston, dragged my limp body from the booth, roused me, and ordered me out of the building. Buddy Killen opened a back door that once was a cattle run, and Houston half-dragged me out the back exit screen.
. . .
I recognized Governor Blanchard, and was well aware of Michigan’s ranking first in the nation in education. “Speaking of which,” he continued, “I believe I see your mother more often than you do these days since she is working in the schools. That little sister of yours (Kimmy) is a prime example of what proper instruction can produce. Your little sister is coming to Mackinac to further her skills. Your whole family is a prime example of how good Education 2000 works.”
. . .
Task complete, I went to Byrd’s nearby room as instructed. He was in the bathroom preparing himself for bed. “Louise had her feathers rustled over Barbara’s collision with destiny and I had to smooth them down a bit.” Drying his dough gray hands on a towel, he turned to me and said, “Looks like you’ve had your wings spread a bit tonight.”
“I wore a path up and down the stairs,” I stated.
Much to my relief he said, “I’m not going to fiddle with you further. I just wanted to give you something to remember me by—Bye.” He compartmentalized my memory with his stun gun.
Soon thereafter, Kelly and I were transported to Mackinac Island, Michigan to meet with Canadian Prime Minister Brian Mulroney at then-Governor James Blanchard’s mansion.
. . .
The guests in the mansion were reminiscent of the recent Tennessee Governor’s convention: Michigan Governor Blanchard, Ohio Governor Dick Celeste, and Pennsylvania Governor Dick Thornburgh. Guy VanderJagt and Jerry Ford were also present. Mulroney appeared to be the guest of “honor.”
. . .
“Tell Mr. Bennett. . .implementation is high. I’m already sold on Global 2000 and have additional points I would like for them to consider. Headsets at every computer station for openers. Double the impact with dual learning. We’re being thrust forward a warp speed, and the generations of the future may need an added booster to bring them up to speed. A united global effort using your education package as a basis is designed to bring the future into a clear and present reality.”
Business complete, Mulroney triggered my sex programming and led me upstairs to bedrooms where Kelly was robotically waiting, entranced. . .
. . .
U.S. and Mexican relations were flourishing in the success of NAFTA’s groundwork, while political differences pertaining to Nicaragua remained a minor point of contention. Since the Catholic Vatican’s Intelligence arm of Jesuits were working closely with U.S. Intelligence to user in the New World Order, they used their established influence in Mexico and Nicaragua to provide a common ground for “diplomatic relations.” My dual mind-control victimization by the CIA and the Jesuits since childhood, and my previous “diplomatic relations” in Mexico thrust me into the role of messenger and prostitute to Nicaragua’s Daniel Ortega.
. . .
I boarded NCL as usual to reach my appointed destination. Since Nicaragua was not a port of call for NCL, I flew from the Yucatan of Mexico to a remote military airstrip in Managua. It was in this small mountain top clearing that I met with Commandant Daniel Ortega, as had been arranged through the Vatican.
I was dressed seasonably, in shorts, with my long blond hair tucked back in a French braid. Ortega’s attire, too, was reflective of the casual air to the meeting. His tan and his military uniform had worn thin and was free of any protocol insignias. The dark, rose-colored sunglasses he peered through apparently had not changed his somber view of the “noble cause” he claimed to represent. I man of few words, he greeted me with an order, “Come with me.” I rode with him in silence as he drove a jeep the short distance across the airstrip to a small, neat, two story, white, frame house.
As we came to a stop in front of the house, Ortega said in a sad, slow voice. “I have needs like any man. But I feel like a whore myself for accepting your President’s offer.”
His bedroom was clean and functional, with numerous assault weapons scattered around. I did not see any modern conveniences or personal effects, but Ortega seemed to be at home in his surroundings.
Ortega’s demeanor was that of a man who had abstained from sex longer than most in his political position. As he slowly unbuttoned his shirt, I noticed a Catholic medallion with the secret Jesuit ascension/dessension symbol on it, a common accessory among Jesuit spooks.
. . .
While he chain smoked cigarettes, I sat in front of him on the floor, and relayed Reagan’s message to him as programmed.
. . .
Ortega thoughtfully finished smoking a cigarette, and lit up another as he confidently replied, “Tell your President that I have seen his freedom, and listened to his words projected through yet another example of it. He paints a beautiful picture suspended within his framework. A picture can appear serene to its beholder while it is being gazed upon. I cannot worship a graven image, and the picture he paints is just that. We have fought too hard and too long, spilling sweat and blood across this land in our determined effort to maintain human values instilled in us by our forefathers, who gained their profound wisdom from the original Catholic missionaries. These values are the same as those portrayed in President Reagan’s painted picture—only ours are real. His have only surface value, like any other painting. If I were to concede, I would only be framed within the picture he paints, hung on his wall like a trophy. I will not mislead my people, in spite of his offers of wealth and position. I am true to my convictions, and when he is true to his, then we will meet on common ground and have something of substance to discuss. For now, words are only a waste of time.”
Ortega put out his cigarette, and pulled back the covers on his bed. “I’ll take you somewhere pleasant.” He took out a well-used opium pipe/bong off his dresser and handed me a nozzle. I had been trained to accept any drug given to me with the only exception being the strictly forbidden marijuana. I hesitated until Ortega assured me it was opium. As the drug took effect he said, “This could be the way to world peace.” Sex with Ortega was at very least free of pain and perversion. Unlike most I was forced to have “diplomatic relations” with for the Reagan Administration, he fell asleep when he was through due to the difference between opium and cocaine.
The honk of a jeep’s horn outside awoke him. As I prepared to leave, he said “Wait.” He took a small, ¼ inch or so ball of black opium from his personal stash, wrapped it in the cellophane from his cigarette package wrapper, and said, “Give this to your President and tell him that you and I have found more peace with this substance than he’ll ever impart on the surface of his painted globe.” As he closed the door quietly behind me he said, “Come back and see me when you have more to offer.”
I was immediately returned by plane to Washington, D. C. where my “mission” had originated. This time I was taken directly to Bush’s office, where I delivered Ortega’s message verbatim. Eliminating most of the dialogue, Bush instructed me to deliver a partial message to Reagan. Unable to perceive message content and people beyond my “Need to Know” mind-controlled limited view, I had no concept that Ortega had proven himself to be as much a hypocrite as he purported Reagan to be by using me as a prostitute and messenger of bad news knowing full well that I had no free will with which to make the message more palatable. Bush’s revision of Ortega’s message added fuel to a proverbial fire that I didn’t even know was burning when I delivered the message to Reagan.
Bush was with Reagan and me in Reagan’s secondary office (to the Oval office) of the White House as I relayed the message as instructed, “Daniel Ortega is a peace loving man, who seeks the same resolutions that we do. But he told me to tell you—(I dug in my purse for the opium) that he and I found more peace in this substance—(I handed the opium to Reagan)—than you’ll ever impart on the surface of your painted globe.”
Bush smiled as Reagan’s face instantly turned beet red with rage. Bush then reacted and spun out of his chair, took the opium for himself, and told Reagan, “Settle down. . .”
. . .
Obviously I wouldn’t be subjected to sex with Reagan that day. I was quickly excused and flown back to Mexico, where I resumed my NCL cruise. With my memory of the event compartmentalized through high voltage, I believed at the time I had never been gone at all.
. . .
In the fall of 1985, the same part of me that met with Ortega was walking with (Reagan appointed) CIA Director William “Bill” Casey through the arboured rose garden of his Long Island estate. Casey began by manipulating my Jesuit/Vatican program base personality with the expertise indicative of the current union between Catholic and CIA operations. Casey, whom Reagan referred to as a “man of Vision,” was forming my Jesuit mind-control programmed “understanding.” “I have a World Vision, one of peace. By removing the more violent factions of societies world wide and replacing them with faithful leaders of one world government, and the one world church, global unification is eminent. It is a beautiful vision, and it came to me in my dreams. God has moved me to move men. I’ve moved them here and I’ve moved them there—now it’s time to REmove them. My World Vision encompasses the globe and puts to rest any and all tensions, strife, overpopulation, and starvation. My vision is a World Vision, and the churches see it my way as evidenced by their support of the cause.”
World Vision was/is a Jesuit controlled organization that led churches to give them money under the guise of spreading world peace. What they were not saying was what the money was actually funding—a world peace plan under mind control.
Perceptual distortions of the virtues that good people hold most dear is one reason for the proliferation of criminal activity within such organizations as World Vision. There are those within affected factions of such organizations, the Catholic Church, and even the U.S. Government that operate under distorted perceptions referred to by the CIA as a “Need to Know” basis—and they “Need to Know” that their minds, religion, and/or perceptions are being deliberately manipulated.
. . .
Referring to my mind-controlled involvement in Haitian operations via NCL, Casey further defined ‘the cause.’ “Your heartfelt mission in Haiti has helped in my World Vision quest for her people to abandon hedonistic voodoo and turn their eyes to God and Godly ways. By their own design, they have created an atmosphere of evil whereby a plague will be visited on their land. The Lord has so moved me to move men who share our goals of peace. It is for this reason that your mission in Haiti must be brought to a close. Baby Doc, in his tireless devotion to saving the demonically possessed, cannot bear the burden of watching his people die the wretched death unleashed upon those doomed to hell. We are left with no alternative but to heed the word of God and spare him from annihilation. For this reason, we will send the missionaries (Jesuit Mercenaries) to inoculate the population with a vaccine that will spare only the good of heart by virtue of its design. All attempts to maintain Haiti within the loop of financial gain will cease. Tourism must be stopped for the sake of the innocents visiting a plagued land. Despite our differences, Baby Doc had complied with the Vatican’s orders to the best of his abilities in his demon-infested land and must resign his post. We owe it to him to transport him to safety. It is our duty as Americans and followers of God to obey the commands of our Lord and Master and enforce World Vision. It is your duty as an American and follower of God to instill the understanding that God has spoken, and a plague is imminent. Baby Doc is being prepared for the transition and awaits word of direction. You will provide him with that word.”
With my perceptions distorted and Catholic Jesuit programmed “understanding” instilled, I was prepared to “religiously accept” any an all I was told. I believed that the revolution in Haiti was a holy war, never capable of realizing it was a test run battle for the minds in this 4th world country.
The devotion I felt toward the Haitian people was more than a religious understanding of these alternatively Catholic-Santeria voodoo worshipers. I was actually subconsciously recognizing other tortured mind-controlled slaves in this human created hell called Haiti. Consciously, I now know it was due in part to the visible stun gun/prod marks, plastic ever-present smiles that never quite reach their dead appearing eyes. The children cling to their wide-eyed mothers, as they performed their tasks in robotic servitude. I had recognized these characteristics in other slaves throughout the years, but never had I seen a whole country entranced. My compassion for the Haiti people penetrated into the realm of the spiritual, into a part of me that mind control and manipulation of religion could never touch.
Casey and I had been walking through the garden, guarded by more armed men than the President. It wasn’t that I was a threat, I couldn’t even think to save myself. It was that Casey and his World Vision were a threat to humanity that so many guards were needed. The men appeared to be U.S. Secret Service officers according to their attire, weapons, and earphone headsets.
. . .
Had I been capable of “reflecting,” I would have questioned the validity of Casey’s dramatic position of “religious overtones” on Haitian policy. Like Reagan’s, Casey’s sincerity did not ring true considering the fruits of his labor. But then, I could not consider any more than I could reflect, and I sat in a state of what felt like suspended animation awaiting my instructions.
. . .
Casey opened the box in front of me. Inside, laying on a bed of cotton, was an elaborate dagger with a handle of the same rose crystal from which the crucifix Byrd had presented to me on “our wedding night” was made. My first personal meeting with Casey promised to be tortuous as I recognized Byrd’s participation in the grisly ordeal.
I listened, deeply tranced, as Casey said, “Is it a knife or a crucifix?” I can’t tell. Both symbolize martyrdom as far as I’m concerned. Note the rose pattern cut into the crystal. Now, I wonder who would have send me this to give to you.”
Even under mind control I knew, as I was supposed to, that Byrd had provided him with the knife. My worst fears were confirmed when Casey began using Byrd’s hypnotic induction, “In like a knife, sharp and clean, I’ll carve out what I want.” Casey sliced through the front of my bra, exposing the area between my breasts where Byrd routinely cut me with his pocketknife. He pierced into my breastbone deeply so that I believed I would split, and indeed did split off a personality fragment compartmentalizing this event. Using standard Jesuit-based infinity program, Casey instructed me and programmed me with messages that I would deliver as though my life depended on it.
. . .
(As a preparation for the introduced plague), Haiti had recently been dropped from the NCL itinerary as a Port of Call, but the Dominican Republic side of the island remained open to tourism. When Houston and I debarked the NCL ship in Puerta Plata, we walked past a World Vision cargo ship that was being unloaded at the dock.
. . .
In an area reserved for covert activities, out of view of tourists, I met with General Cedras in his Citadel office. . . .I had seen him at a monastery in Santo Domingo as ordered before when Haiti was still being used by the CIA for Operation Watchtower to transport cocaine and Contra weapons from Cuba.
Alone with Cedras and properly signaled, I began photographically reciting Casey’s message, “I have a word of warning from the Vatican by way of the honorable and faithful William Casey. He sends word of impending doom that is to befall your neighbors on the darkside of Haiti. Voodoo manifests itself in mysterious ways while the way of the Lord is clear. Evil must be stopped at all costs. The cost shall be in terms of human casualty, as a plague is being visited upon the land. Woo onto them who have stood in the path of World Peace. By God’s design, the New World Order shall come into being with or without the Haitians. All American operations in Haiti are now destined for your ports. Your people (the CIA-UN operated Dominicans) will flourish in peace and prosperity while the dark side (Haitians) drown in blood of this holy war that they have brought upon themselves. Close your borders swiftly and maintain guardians at the gate lest the Haitians infest your land with their evil plague. Inoculation of the masses shall be masked in the body and the blood shall carry their doom. As more and more Haitians turn to God in their final hour, the communion they partake will be Satan’s own. With their God as the scapegoat, your Island in the Son (sun) will be freed of the vile and wicked. I have seen a vision, a World Vision, and it is through communion with the ancients that we have been granted the keys to the Kingdom to unlock the gates of hell. The holy water sent herein has the blessings of the Vatican and must be sprinkled like rain upon the Haitians. Our God reigns, and he rains rivers of blood upon the Haitian masses, and he reigns supreme upon your mission. Your mission is clear. You serve communion and let God sort them out. . .”
. . .
Interpretation of the final message is left to the minds of the masses who can still discern truth. My conclusions are “clear,” based on conversations overheard and my experience as a White House sex slave
I was relieved to depart Cedras’ presence without being subjected to his usual perverse sexual brutality.
. . .
. . .my programmed trance was maintained until I delivered Casey’s message to Baby Doc Duvalier on the “dark side” of the “Island in the Son.”
. . .
I was driven by white Mercedes to the Haitian Presidential Palace. Looking even more conspicuously out of place in contrast to stark poverty than his fleet of Mercedes, Baby Doc’s Palace was decadent.
. . .
I had met with Baby Doc throughout the early ’80s in the capacity of a Project Monarch prostitute. All Haitian-based U.S. covert operations were run by a bed-ridden old man referred to as “Ol’ Charlie,” who resided at the El Presidente Hotel until his death in the mid-’80s. During my tenure as a mind-controlled messenger and prostitute in Haiti, I had been forced to attend a voodoo ceremony for my (and others) traumatization purposes. I was ordered to perform oral sex on Baby Doc as his dark-windowed Mercedes slowly proceeded through the crowds of Haitians on their way to the ritual. With my Haitian missions previously established with Ol’ Charlie for business and Baby doc for prostitution, my meeting Baby Doc for business was unprecedented.
“What brings you here?” Baby Doc spit the words at me in English. I had been led into his library by three armed guards. “I have no need of a Catholic whore.”
Baby Doc’s applicable knowledge of the English language was limited by his intellect whereby an aide filled the need for an interpreter as I delivered Casey’s message.
“I come in the name of peace. I have a message to you from William Casey, sanctioned by the Vatican. The Pope is in agreement with U.S. policy in Haiti. He has seen a vision, a sign from God. The vision is World Vision, whose people are reaching out to yours with charity in abundance. The goods and services provided require only that the people of Haiti anoint the sick, feed the hungry, and clothe the poor through his servants of World Vision. Their mission will separate the good seed from bad and restore peace in your region. The peace that shall be visited upon your land amongst your people is imminent, but not before the rivers run red with the blood of the wicked. The vision is a plague, and your people will fall in the streets pleading for mercy, and you will not be here to hear it. The time has come for you to leave. It is God’s will that you escape the plague with blessings from the Vatican, never to return to your homeland. Prepare your exodus today for tomorrow holds a promise of doom. Using your prophetic wisdom, warn the masses of impending doom and arm with World Vision. . . .”
. . .
With Casey’s message delivered, Baby Doc’s Tontons returned me to the same airplane I had left a short time before. I few in silence, unable to think to comprehend the magnitude of what had just transpired. Events to a mind-controlled slave are all perceived as first and last times. Therefore, Casey’s instructions that I would “depart Haiti, never to return again” seemed business as usual to me.
. . .
ON December 4, 1986, I turned 29 years old. Usually, mind-controlled slaves were discarded, “thrown from the Freedom train,” at 30; but I argued with Houston when he told me my government abusers only had one year left to “use me up.” I had had no conscious awareness of the passing of time and believed I was still 24. Regardless of what I believed, my abusers did their best to “use me up” physically and psychologically before even a month had passed.
. . .
George Bush was highly active in both the Lampe, Missouri and Shasta, California retreat compounds. Just like Lampe, Shasta’s cover was country music. According to everyone I knew, singer and songwriter Merle Haggard supposedly ran the show at Lake Shasta, diverting any and all attention from the nearby Mount Shasta compound. Shasta was the largest, covert mind-control slave camp of which I am aware. Hidden in the wooded hills, military fencing corrals an enormous fleet of unmarked, black helicopters and more mind-controlled, military robots than I saw in all of Haiti. This covert military operation served its own agenda, not America’s. I was told and overheard that it was a base for the future Multi-Jurisdictional Police Force; for enforcing order and law in the New World Order.
. . .
As soon as we arrived at Bush and Cheney’s inner sanctum, I noticed George (W.) Bush, Jr. was with them. It was my experience that Jr. stood by his father and covered his backside whenever Bush would become incapacitated from drugs or required criminal backup. It appeared that Jr. was there to serve both purposes while his father and Cheney enjoyed their work-vacation.
Hyper from drugs, Cheney and Bush were eager to hunt their human prey in “A Most Dangerous Game”. They greeted me with the rules of the game, ordered me to strip naked despite the cold December winds, and told me in Oz cryptic to “beware of the lions, tigers, and bears.” Kelly’s life became the stakes, as usual, which resurrected my natural and exaggerated programmed maternal instincts. Tears silently slid down my cheeks as Bush told me, “If we catch you, Kelly’s mine. . . .”
. . .
It was late evening when Bush and Cheney finished programming me with numerous messages pertaining to the immediate opening of the Juarez, Mexican border to free (drug and slave) trade. They then took me downstairs to the living quarters of the western cedar and redwood structure where Kelly soon joined us. George (W.) Bush, Jr., deposited my obviously traumatized and withdrawn child at the door. Referring to the Most Dangerous Game she told me in a quiet, defeated and sad voice, “I was caught the same as you.”
. . .
The décor of the residence area reflected Cheney’s primitive, rustic, western preference. Like his “ultra secret” Pentagon Bunkhouse, use of leather was in abundance. The main room was small but appeared larger due to an infinity mirror on one wall. The main room was small but appeared larger due to being decorated in mirror fashion with one side looking at the other. Centered between two facing black leather sofas was a coffee table littered with drugs and paraphernalia. Bush and Cheney were sitting in matching black leather recliners angled toward the large stone fireplace where a fire was blazing, illuminating and heating the room.
Heroin, Bush’s drug of choice, was in abundance and Cheney joined him in using it. The smorgasbord of drugs laid out supposedly included opium, cocaine, and Wonderland Wafers (MDMHA-XTC aka ecstasy), which indicated to me that they intended to celebrate their vacation with abandon. I had seen Cheney stumbling drunk before, but this was the only time I saw him use heroin and give it to me. Kelly, too, was subjected to the drugs.
Bush attempted to sell Cheney on the idea of pedophilia through graphic descriptions of having sex with Kelly. Both were already sexually aroused from drugs and anticipation. Cheney demonstrated to Bush why he did not have sex with kids by exposing himself to Kelly and saying, “Come here.” Upon seeing Cheney’s unusually large penis, Kelly reeled back in horror and cried, “No!” which made them both laugh. Bush asked Cheney for his liquid cocaine atomizer as he got up to take Kelly to the bedroom. When Cheney remarked how benevolent it was of Bush to numb her with it before sex, Bush replied “The hell it is. It’s for me.” He described his excited state in typical vulgar terms and explained that he wanted to spray cocaine on his penis to last longer.
Cheney said, “I thought it was for the kid.”
Bush explained, “Half the fun is having them squirm.” He took Kelly’s hand and led her off to the bedroom.
Cheney told me that since I was “responsible” for Bush’s assault on my daughter by being caught in A Most Dangerous Game, I would “burn” (in hell). He burned my inner thigh with the fireplace poker and threatened to throw Kelly in the fire. He hypnotically enhanced his description of her burning to traumatize me deeply. As he sexually brutalized me, I heard Kelly’s whimpers coming from the bedroom. As her cries grew louder, Cheney turned on classical music to drown out her cries for help.
. . .Dante drove me to a Bel Aire mansion high on a hill where another party was underway. As I joined those who had gathered on the manicured lawn, I recognized many of the same Mafia people who had been at the Malibu retreat aka “Hotel California.” This was a welcome party for President Reagan who had just arrived. He was walking across the yard toward me with his friend, Jack Valenti, who was the president of the powerful Motion Picture Association of America. Reagan looked his role amongst his mobster friends, his beige coat with fur collar draped over his shoulders revealing a dark gray, pinstripe suit underneath. In retrospect, I remember him as dressed like the one mobster I did not have to meet, John Gotti. As soon as my eyes met his, I was knocked to the ground by a familiar blue-white blast (high voltage) like the one I had recently experienced in D. C.
When I came back around and my eyes refocused, Dante was holding me up. Reagan said, “Well, hello Kitten.”
“Well, Kitten,” Reagan said to me, “this is your death sentence: You’ll go out in a blaze of glory.” I was not surprised to receive confirmation of my imminent death by Reagan. I had heard about death by fire from seemingly everyone involved in establishing “free trade,” through Mexico, of our children for drugs. Reagan’s use of patriotic metaphors and puns while matter-of-factly informing me he ordered my death was reflective of his often displayed lack of respect for human life. What reflected his character, even more, were the crimes he was involved in that prompted him to cover-up through “sentencing” me to death. I had witnessed the criminal foundations of NAFTA, which in turn could threaten the successful implementation of the New World Order should these secrets ever be revealed. Initial ‘free trade’ including drugs and white slavery extended beyond the U.S./Mexican border. It routed U.S. traumatized, robotic, mind-controlled children into Saudi Arabia, while building up weapons stockpiles in Nicaragua and Iraq. Although I was considered to be no threat, predicated on the (erroneous) belief that I could not be deprogrammed to regain my memory of these events, my death would provide extra insurance to those involved. I was nearly “used up” anyway, and recording my death via “Snuff Film” was agreed upon as proof to De la Madrid and other leaders at risk, that I had indeed been silenced through death.
De la Madrid noticed Reagan was not laughing and said, “That’s like crashing a Mercedes to film a stunt.” He leaned forward in his chair closer to Reagan, lowered his voice and said, “It is my desire to have seven just like her roll off the assembly line and shipped to me prior to the agreement’s completion.”
Reagan agreed, responding, “Those (blonde haired, blue eyed) fine kids on the relay to Saudi Arabia are top of the line, but they don’t have what she’s got.”
My world spun black. Someone had hit me with a powerful stun gun and I was down, feeling as though Dante was half dragging me as he led me to his car, which was already idling in the circular drive.
After the opening of the Juarez border, I was kept actively busy according to the plan to “use me up” before my 30th birthday death sentence. I was subjected to a brutal (near death gang rape) “celebration benefit” at an identified Masonic Lodge in Warren, Ohio to “celebrate the free trade benefits” gained by involved East Coast politicos. Centers such as the nearby Youngstown “Charm School” went into mass production of slaves to mule drugs or be part of the mind-controlled sex slave “trance-sport” operations. Mexico was not the only country reaping the economic benefits of criminal free trade.
After Kelly’s ordeal in California, Dante and Houston were criminally exploiting her for literally “all she was worth.” Subsequently, she missed an extraordinary amount of schooling. When she was in school, she was experiencing difficulty with her peers. These factors prompted plans to send her to a local Catholic school the next year, where her unusual behavior would be overlooked and covered up.
Soon thereafter, Senator Byrd came to Nashville to fiddle at the Grand Ole Opry and, as my handler, Houston, remarked, “fiddle around with me” at the Opryland Hotel. Byrd explained that close association with me had become volatile due to my roles in Iran-Contra and NAFTA, and therefore he would be distancing himself from me. He spent most of “out last night together” working on his memoirs for a voluminous book on the U.S. Constitution he was writing (now published at taxpayers’ expense), which focuses on his long-winded Senate (filibuster) speeches.
Byrd had not distanced himself too far from me, though, where government operations were concerned. When I was “over the rainbow” in D.C. during the summer of ’87, it was business as usual with Byrd. I was escorted to Goddard Space Flight Center where Byrd was waiting for me in a sterile hallway near the brass-trimmed, mirrored elevators. He was loaded down with items, which he deposited on a small table as he greeted me. He picked up a NASA ID badge and clipped it on my nipple, then metal teeth biting me with their serrated edges. When I (softly) cried out, he said, “Oh, OK. I’ll wear it,” removed it, and clipped it on his white lab coat. He handed me a NASA lab coat like his and a white hard hat. His hard had suggestively said HARD in bold red letters. My had said NASA, in a mirror reversal of the standard bold red lettering. . . .It also clearly identified to those-in-the-know that I was under mind control.
Senator Patrick Leahy (D-Vermont), who served as vice chairman of the U.S. Senate Intelligence Committee in 1985-86, was a “friend” of Senator Byrd. Leahy’s position on Byrd’s Senate Appropriations Committee, coupled with his former position in Intelligence, afforded him an inordinate amount of power and influence. While I had cause to have contact with Senator Leahy on numerous occasions, Kelly was apparently more familiar with him than I.
The LL Bean outlet, located near the top of supposedly the highest mountain in the pristine forest, appeared to be a store front for CIA covert activity. When I asked the ‘clerk’ assigned to Kelly and me for a black, Swiss Army Knife, his response was indicative of familiarity with government covert operations. Using the old familiar statement (trigger), he ordered Kelly and me to “Walk this way,” as he led us through a storage area and out the back door. There a black, unmarked helicopter was waiting on a pad for us.
The pilot flew us a short distance to the top of a mountain, where we landed in a clearing next to a house that appeared to have no other access. The place was run like a fortress, and two guards in suits met us as Kelly and I emerged from the helicopter. The guards escorted us into the house, keeping Kelly while I met with Senator Leahy.
I delivered the documents and message as ordered. Leahy then proceeded to explain that he was aware that my death was imminent due to my groundwork participation in NAFTA, and that subsequently Kelly would be traded to the West Coast pornography operation. Not only did he obviously want to join in on “using me up” before my 30th birthday, but he had “tracks” to cover-up where Kelly was concerned.
Kelly and I had been given what felt like a sophisticated variation of the NASA CIA-designer drug, Tranquility, which turned us into the robotic mind-controlled slaves that Senator Leahy preferred. As the drug was overtaking me, I attentively listened to what Leahy was saying.
Kelly was standing quietly and robotically just outside the door with the two guards. The ushered us down the hall, through an ornately carved door, and into Leahy’s bedroom. The room was highly effeminate for a man, decorated in pastels, white eyelet, and huge billowy pillows. When the Senator walked in Kelly groaned, “Noooo, not you again.” Leahy signaled Kelly with his hand, thus switching her into total silence and submission. . . .His pale skin looked even whiter against the white eyelet sheets, which seemed to accentuate the perversity of his pedophile actions with my daughter that I was forced to watch. His tortures complete, Leahy ordered Kelly and me to follow him downstairs to his “torture lab.”
I had seen and experienced basement “spy conditioning” torture chambers before both in the U.S. and in Mexico, and Leahy’s “torture lab” looked more like a NASA lab. His access to the latest advancements in electronic/drug mind-control technology was consistent with his ability to use it. I was immediately strapped to a cold, chrome and stainless steel table by the two guards. Leahy began reciting, “Cross your heart and hope to die, Stick a needle in your eye.” A wiry “needle” was pushed slowly into my right eye while Kelly was forced to watch. This entire ordeal was directed for trauma purposes primarily at Kelly since Leahy figured I would be dead soon anyway. “If you holler, if you cry, Kelly will be the first to die. Pray to God and Bush will hear because this Eye now has an ear.”
While I was literally out of my mind from intense pain, Leahy utilized the opportunity to program me with what he said was financial information to deliver to Byrd.
I had photographically recorded numbers in my mind’s “computer banks” ever since Leahy prepared me for the task some months before at White Sands Missile Base in New Mexico. It was there in the TOP SECRET mind-control area of the base that Leahy subjected me to extreme tortures and high-tech programming. Combining purposes as usual, Leahy was saying, “Funding will continue to be approved as long as (mind-control) Projects such as this continue to receive your full attention.”
Saudi Arabia threaded in and out of most operations in which I was involved, primarily due to their purchase and routing of weapons, drugs, and blond-hair, blue-eyed programmed children. According to George Bush’s claims, Saudi Arabia was in essence a controlled financial arm of the United States. Saudi Arabian King Fahd and his Ambassador to the U.S., Prince Bandar, provided a front for the unconstitutional and criminal covert operations of the U.S. This included the arming of Iraq and the Nicaraguan Contras; U.S. involvement in the Bank of Credit and Commerce International (B.C.C.I.) scandal; and funding of the Black Budget through purchase of our nation’s children to be used as sex slaves and camel jockeys. Since the U.S. “won” control of the drug industries through the so-called Drug Wars, Saudi Arabia played an integral role in distribution. It was my experience that Bush’s claim of having Saudi Arabian King Fahd as his puppet was, in fact, reality. It was only natural that criminal diplomatic relations with Mexico interface with Saudi Arabia under the circumstances.
The message that Reagan had me programmed with earlier that day was further evidence of this. I delivered Reagan’s message to King Fahd as ordered:
“Greetings to King Fahd from President Reagan. The negotiations you are about to embark on are not only critical to the world peace process, but may solidify U.S.-Saudi relations beyond your wildest expectations. You have my word that what appears to be the building up of forces in Iraq is but a mirage in the whirlwind. And when this operation is completed and the dust finally settles, you will see that the sands have shifted in time, running out on our adversaries and shifting all power and control to our united effort. United we stand to conquer all in the name of world peace and world order, and I am confident that together we can not fail. The more Saddam destroys is that much less for us to do and deal with when we implement the Order. . . .”
Just before Kelly and I were to leave for California, Mark asked me to help him force Houston out of business by providing him with the files on suspected (corporate) criminal activity that Houston kept hidden at our house. Not only did I gladly do so, but “somehow” I was able to ask for help in return. I asked him to help Kelly and me get away from Houston before I was killed and Kelly was sentenced to a fate worse than death.
“Wake up, sleeping beauty,” Mark said as a gently roused me with a cup of fresh coffee. “Welcome to a new day.”
My eyes opened. I had never experienced such kindness before, and it seemed like a whole new world to me. . .
February 4, 1988 marked the beginning of life for Kelly and me, free from our mind-controlled existence. It also marked the beginning of a new kind of survival as we embarked on “The Most Dangerous Game” of international proportions. Despite death threats and attempts, intimidation and cover-ups, we have survived these past years by refusing to keep secrets. . .
As quickly as the accuracy of my deprogramming notes were corroborated and/or verified, abstracts of various experiences and identification of abusers were vastly disseminated.
Absolute mind control was the only existence we knew until Mark Phillips rescued my then 8-year old daughter, Kelly, and me directly from the CIA/DIA’s MK-Ultra Project Monarch in 1988. Though a series of carefully orchestrated events, Mark cleverly maneuvered our mind-controlled handler, Alex Houston, into a position of “trust” that provided him the latitude to lift us free of our existence unscathed. When my “owner,” U.S. Senator Robert C. Byrd, and other so-called leaders of our country involved in the Project realized the problem Alex Houston’s bumbling had created, Mark took us to the safety of Alaska where be began remembering that which we were supposed to forget.
As my eyes opened and I woke up to reality, I became enraged. Enraged for the traumas inflicted on my daughter. Enraged for a lifetime of abuse at the hands of our country’s so-called “leaders.” Enraged that the American public had no idea as to who or what was/is running their country. Mark helped me refocus my rage in a productive direction when he told me, “The best revenge is a total recovery.”
TRANCE Formation of America is the first documented autobiography of a victim of government mind control. Cathy O’Brien is the only vocal and recovered survivor of the Central Intelligence Agency’s MK-Ultra Project Monarch operation. Tracing her path from child pornography and recruitment into the program to serving as a top-level intelligence agent and White House sex slave, TRANCE Formation of America is a definitive eye-witness account of government corruption that implicates some of the most prominent figures in U.S. politics.
9-11 Director CHENEY RAPES CHILDREN and has a history of playing HUNT THE HUMAN in Wyoming [with 25 comments]
The Franklin Cover-Up: Child Abuse, Satanism, and Murder in Nebraska
Secret Agenda: The United States Government, Nazi Scientists, and Project Paperclip, 1945 to 1990
Thy Will Be Done: The Conquest of the Amazon: Nelson Rockefeller and Evangelism in the Age of Oil
[CIA/DIA MKULTRA trauma mind control] author: Cathy O’Brien