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  • "...Last Words, Last Words, Out!..."

    "...Last Words, Last Words, Out!..."



    http://whitenationalist.org/forum/sh...=2050#post2050


    INTRODUCTION/TECHNICAL NOTE:

    OK, now that I've got everyone's attention.....

    Actually, it's like this: May 12th was the absolute latest that I was willing to put off the posting of my autobiography on here, so here goes.

    I chose this date because it has a certain amount of personal significance to me. First of all, it was the birthday of this chick that I was really hung up on back in 1986, when I was in the eighth grade. She was three years older than me, and barely aware of my existence. (I was 13. She was 16.)

    I was going to this fundamentalist Baptist "Christian" school at the time, which was really fucked up in a lot of ways, which I will get into in great detail later on. But, anyway, in October of that year, they caught her and a number of others cheating on a test, and her punishment was that they all had to go up in front of the whole school and apologize during a chapel service. She got so pissed about that that she left a few weeks later. Can't much say that I blamed her.

    But, anyway, I had gotten the idea in my brain that I was gonna kill myself on her birthday that next year to impress her. Just one of those goofy little adolescent whims. I was gonna jump off a railroad trestle and land on some rocks, but considering the fact that the railroad trestle was only about ten feet high, and I was six feet tall at that point, the most I would likely have done was maybe break a leg.

    But, the weekend before I was to do it, I had picked up a vinyl copy of The Who's TOMMY, and it totally changed my life. I really related to the story, because of the fucked up childhood I had had. I figured that, if ol' TW could rise above all the many pitfalls and stumblingblocks that he had encountered, then so could I. There were bigger and better things still ahead.

    So, within a few months, I had forgotten all about this stupid bitch, and had a good laugh every time I thought about how I almost did myself in over her.

    By the time that date rolled around the next year, I was hung up on a different chick,---one who was in the same grade I was in, and only a few months older. We actually hung out together, and got along quite well. She was a really mellow, down-to-earth chick, unlike the rest of those stuck-up bitches over there. She just saw me as a friend at first, but, in hindsight, I'm glad things never went any further than they did between us. She was crazier than I was, and that's saying something. I didn't find out until later that the bitch was basically fucking every guy in town besides me. Just as well, then that I never fucked her. God only knows what diseases I might've picked up from a skank like that. Gonorrhea at the very least.

    But, anyway, on May 12, 1988, I did this big ritual of "burying" the other bitch "at sea"--putting her picture under a rock in the "Little Pond", basically an oversized puddle down in the woods that my Dad had made by draining off water from a stream, where he used to put small fish that he had caught, so they could grow bigger.

    And, on May 12, 1989, I wrote a kind of letter to myself, just sort of taking stock of the current situation, since I had finally gotten over the second bitch (She had left, too, back in September.) and had all but forgotten the first.

    Years later, in early March of 1996, I found the letter, and, with nothing better to do one afternoon, began reading it for comic effect, in the style of a nigger preacher. I thought it was pretty damn funny. Then, a few weeks later, after I had learned a couple of chords on acoustic guitar, and had begun recording some crude demos of some of my songs, I decided I would turn that performance into a song as well. The end result kinda sounded like a Roger Miller number, which I thought was pretty cool. I included it on my second album, FROM THE TRENCHES.

    So, anyway, that's the significance of the date.

    As far as the title is concerned, it's taken from the final poem written by my spiritual father, before they found him dead in that bathtub in Paris, France, back in July, 1971. Some have speculated that it was intended as a sort of suicide note.

    I actually chose it back in late 2008, when I was still planning on reading my anti-nigger poems at the Poetry Slam in Knoxville, and taking whatever consequences there were. I was gonna post it on PokerFace Forum (still am, actually) and, I suppose, on OD, too which I had just then started posting to. Of course, I was kicked out of that litle cyber-shithole about a year ago.

    Keep in mind, though, that the actual title I've chosen for my autobiography is MIDDLE FINGER FIRST, and that's what I will ultimately change it to, once I get it written to my satisfaction. This version is merely a rough draft. But, since the above title is what I told my friend Tim to look for, back in 2008, I will leave it as such for know. Who knows, if I fall over dead of a heart attack from being a lardass with no self-discipline before I finish this, the title may take on a prophetic quality. And I guess I'm just morbid/sadistic enough to appreciate that.


    --------------------------------------------------------------------------

    PREFACE


    "I want death for all concerned
    You're gonna burn
    For what you have not learned
    And I know I'm never gonna be free
    Until I see your asses hanging from a tree
    And you're not on this earth no more
    You've done gone back to the Mother Whore
    And you can't fuck with me."

    ---from "Death For All Concerned", (unfinished song) 1993.



    "They told me everything was guaranteed
    Someone somwhere must've lied to me
    But one of these days I'm gonna pay it back
    Pay it back one of these days."

    ----Elvis Costello, from "Pay It Back", 1977.



    I think about a lot of things. There is absolutely nothing that I haven't thought about. No thought that has ever occurred to any human being since the beginning of time that hasn't occurred to me.

    I have questioned God, the nature of my own existence, the realities of race and culture, whether God or Satan, in fact, actually created the perplexing creature called "woman", whether my parents ever really loved me, whether some child-molesting Jew rabbi hadn't imbedded some backwards message in every song that's ever been recorded, and, yes, even the rightness of the Southron Cause.

    There is *ABSOLUTELY NOTHING* that I haven't questioned, particularly since I began my past seventeen years of self-imposed solitary confinement, here in my little Appalachian poet's shack. Hell, it's even occurred to me that Joyce DeWitt, pretty as she once was, might actually be a Jewess.

    And the conclusion I have ultimately come to is this: What the fuck does it even MATTER whether I'm crazy or not? Hell, it's not like the rest of the world is so incredibly sane, anyhow. Like Pastor Lindstedt once stated, and I'm paraphasing, here, "The whole ZOGland is basically nothing but a giant coast-to-coast [open-air] free-range nuthouse without a roof." I couldn't agree more. In my 37 years of existence, that fact has been confirmed time and time again.

    The past two generations of Ameriswine are nothing but creatures from Dr. Kikenstein's laboratory. Every single thought we've initially had has been programmed into us by the ZOG-box. The only difference is that Der Boomenschwein grew up with programs like LEAVE IT TO BEAVER and FATHER KNOWS BEST and Walt Disney programs extolling the virtues of people like Revolutionary War hero Francis Marion and Confederate General John Singleton Mosby, not to mention a feature film about the fictional Minuteman, Johnny Tremaine. Therefore, the way they turned out is nobody's fault but their own. They were all too willing to partake of that Forbidden Fruit. Hymie didn't have to hold a gun to their heads. Not so with my generation, though. Hell, the first thing I ever saw on the ZOG-box was Cher's navel.

    Most of my generation, I fear, is completely and utterly lost, without a clue as to what's actually going on. The bottom line is they're just worthless whiggers, and God chose to make them that. There's no polishing that turd. If it's His will for them to be damned, they will be damned.

    As for myself, I may be a mamzer and a demoniac, but that wasn't my doing, and has little or nothing to do with who I really am as a person. A mamzer has free will, just like anybody else. Even a dog gets to decide who he wants to bite and why. Better a mongrel dog than a whigger hyena, I say.

    I just don't believe God would have allowed me to know all the things that I've come to know if He didn't want me to survive. And that's what I have determined to do --- SURVIVE. It may be that a lot of the things that the world has deemed to be disadvantages might prove to be advantages. When the shit hits the fan, it may actually be a good thing to be a little crazy.

    At any rate, I've chosen to post this here in Mamzerville in the interest of intellectual honesty. After all, I am a mamzer, whether I like it or not. I would also ask that Pastor Lindstedt mirror this thread over in the 'Bedlam/Nuthouse' section as well.

    (Will do after reformatting/NOT editing a bit. PMLDL)



    What I intend to do is post this autobiography, however long it takes me to do so, -- working at it about two days a week, whenever possible --, and when I finish, volunteer my services to Pastor Lindstedt as his personal Gibeonite/two-legged guard dog, if he's willing to take me in. Otherwise, if he can refer me to somebody else who lives an agrarian/survivalist type lifestyle and plans to fight back when ZOG comes to the door, that would be great.

    Well, I can't allow myself a personal pet mamzer after chewing ass on baal-priests for having pet jews, niggers amd mamzers. However, King Saul had to pay for killing the Gibeonites and there is enough room on this continent for numerous bantustans of mamzers if such be YHWH's Will. YHWH and Jesus Christ determine who goes where, cf. Matt 25:31-33. That there shall be sundry nations left for Christ to judge after the Great Tribulation is thus a given. Thus it is Christ's Will for all survivors to face judgment, and no Israelite dare trespass upon Christ's and YHWH's perogatives lightly.

    What I could use is a musician able to do the instrumental work on sundry songs starting with "Whigger Problem." That Christian Israel's biggest problem isn't the muds or even the jews, but treasonous whiggers, and that ZOG is comprised of racial Israel serving Kenite Babylon, has been my main message. The DSCI message is not aimed at the non-Israelite, but at the Israelite, taking such to task for their sins, as the non-Israelite cannot sin as such are outside the Law of YHWH. Pastor Martin LD Lindstedt CJCC/AN


    I figure it will probably take me between six months and a year to finish this thing. By then, assuming the race war/Great Tribulation hasn't already started, IT WILL BE TIME FOR ME TO GET SERIOUS. I live two and a half miles downwind from a nuclear plant, so, whether it's the Chinks or the Magical Nigger or some future President, if they ever decide to hit that, I'm toast.

    I think what I need is a chance to get back to an agrarian type situation where I'm living in the REAL WORLD, and not this phony little Antichrist electronic soap opera that Hymie has created, with the help of that Human Lucifer, Thomas Alva Edison. I think if I can learn some survival skills and basic self-reliance, I'll be alright. Those are the very things that Hymie does his damnedest to keep us from learning, so that we end up with a bunch of goofy intellectual posers like Cunterre Wallace, who couldn't find their dicks in a windstorm, yet think they're actually accomplishing something. Spiritually speaking, they're nothing but Monkey-People, like the Bandar-Log in Kipling's THE JUNGLE BOOK.

    You see, I'm absolutely convinced that THE KEY TO SANITY IS AGRICULTURE. I don't doubt that it cured many a mamzer of his goofiness, back in the day. You've got to admit, you don't hear the phrase, "crazy farmer" used very often. The greatest victory Hymie ever won was getting most White people off the land. Once he had accomplished that, the rest was just academic. Had he not accomplshed that, he never would've succeeded in stealing their hearts and minds.

    Once he got us off the land, he got us to literally worship women, which we did. You see, WITHOUT AGRICULTURE THERE CAN BE NO TRUE PATRIARCHY. If woman doesn't need man to go out and work in the field every day, in order to literally put food on the table, what in the bloody hell DOES she need him for??? Not much. In this infernal modern age, she can go out and earn a living for herself. Doesn't need a man for that. If she owns a gun and knows how to use it, she can protect herself, too. Doesn't need a man for that. Hell, she doesn't even need a man for sex. She can get that from a vibrating dildo, or another woman, or, God forbid, her dog. (Disgusting as it is, I doubt if it's all that rare, anymore. And I'm sure the femroidz are all for it.)

    So, what you have is a little twat-centered soap opera world that's all about instant gratification. And no man can live in it without being a little crazy. Most of us, in fact, are more than a little crazy. It just can't be helped. Because, after all, what is there to do? Make a little money, buy a TV, a DVD player, a stereo system, a computer, and, usually, some type of video game system, and then, of course, plenty of DVDs, CDs, and game cartridges to play on them.

    Well, I've done all that. Thankfully, I didn't have to actually work for the so-called "privilege", but I've done it. And I'm sick of it. It ain't gonna save my soul. It ain't gonna get me sane. It's the PROBLEM, not the solution. The disease, not the cure. All you end up doing is whacking off and blowing smoke up your own ass, telling yourself that you'll get laid someday, when, in fact, you don't really even want to get laid, because you just know deep down, that, if you did, the evil little bitch would call the cops on you and get you thrown in jail, the minute you failed to satisfy one of her little whims.

    Because, in reality, "casual sex" only exists in the twisted mind of the Jew. Women always want more than that from a guy, unless they're drunk, in which case, they could always have you arrested for "date rape", so it's no better. They're out to trap men into relationships. And, nowadays, most of the little skanks can't even seem to get off unless you beat the shit out of them, and, if you relent, and do so, how easy would it be for them to simply call the cops on your ass for "domestic violence"? THINK ABOUT IT!!!

    I swear, if I could afford to get one of those high-priced mechanical "love dolls" I would. I'd get one that looked exactly like Joyce DeWitt back in 1979, and fuck it whenever I wanted. And the pigs couldn't do shit!!! See what I mean? THE MODERN AGE MAKES PEOPLE CRAZY, DAMNIT!!!

    But, anyway, what it all boils down to is, we're all in the same boat. In this Jew-ridden age we live in, if somebody looks like a White man, well, he gets treated like a White man,---that is to say, like a mangy dog. So, in that sense, it matters very little whether someone is 100% White or not. If he looks White, he's got a target on his ass, and ZOG put it there.

    So, to a great degree, my problems are your problems. And, as far as the problems that you don't have, namely demonic possession, you could certainly stand to learn a little about, first-hand. There are some things about my condition that I *KNOW* to be true, and other areas where I merely have to speculate. But, for what it's worth, I intend to tell you all I know about the way that I am, and why I'm that way, and, if there's anyone to blame besides myself, well, the bastards deserve to be exposed for the Satan-serving vermin they are.

    Here goes....

    Last edited by PastorLindstedt; 05-13-2010, 04:53 PM. Reason: Reformatting for ease of reading.
    IF YOU STILL LOVE AMERIKA, YOU'RE A NIGGER-LOVER!!! ---CGO. 1/20/'09.



    "Lay down your silver and your gold
    I am a man who won't be sold
    And even when my heart grows cold
    I'll curse your evil stranglehold."---Horslips, from "Trouble With A Capital 'T'", 1977.

  • #2
    PART ONE: A SMILE FROM THE VEIL



    "So you think you can tell
    Heaven from Hell
    Blue skies from pain
    Can you tell a green field
    From a cold steel rail?
    A smile from a veil?" ---Pink Floyd, "Wish You Were Here", 1975.



    __________________________________________________ _______________



    CHAPTER ONE: CHOSEN



    "Swear by those horsemen
    By those women
    Complexion and form prove superhuman
    That pale, long-visaged company
    That air in immortality"----William Butler Yeats, "Under Ben Bulben",1938.



    "Riders on the storm
    Riders on the storm
    Into this house we're born
    Into this world we're thrown
    Like a dog without a bone
    An actor out on loan
    Riders on the storm"--James Douglas Morrison, "Riders On The Storm", 1971.



    __________________________________________________ _______________



    It was a rather windy morning in late February or early March of either 1975 or 1976. I was up on the hill behind my parents' house, wearing my red hooded windbreaker. I was on the swingset that my Dad and Grandpa had cemented into the ground, riding my swinghorse, Pete. He was sort of marroon-colored, about the same shade as our Irish Setter, Nick.



    I looked up into the sky and saw a vision. The substance of this vision was a kind of phosphorescent green, swirling, gaseous sort of substance, somewhat like the substance of a cloud.



    There was an old thatched-roof cottage, one of those with the conical-shaped roofs, like they had back in medeival times, and the roof was burning. There was a woman and a male child standing outside of it, weeping. There were three or four men on horseback, riding past the cottage, all with long hair and jagged, evil-looking faces, and dressed in suits of armor. I heard a noise, too, like a bunch of vicious dogs growling and barking.



    They seemed to be riding past the cottage in a sort of snake-like pattern, and the one riding in front was looking right at me. At first, it didn't bother me that much, as I figured that, whatever it was that I was seeing, surely it couldn't see me. Surely it wasn't real. The more I looked at the guy's face, though, the more frightened I became. He had glowing red eyes that seemed to be boring right through me. I also noticed that he had a sword buckled to his left side. I saw him reach for the sword hilt, and that was all I needed to see.



    I jumped off the swinghorse and ran and hid in a hole made by the roots of a nearby pine tree. I stayed there with my butt in the air until all the growling sounds had ceased. When I finally felt like it was safe to come out, I looked up and the vision had gone. I don't think I was ever so thankful for anything in my life.



    It wasn't long after this that I went to spend the night with my grandparents, who lived just down the road. (My grandpa still lives there today, next door to the lot where my single-wide trailer is. My grandpa lives to my right and Uncle Sonny and his wife, Sheila, live to my left. My grandparents' house was remodelled the year I was born. It had originally been a wooden structure, painted white, but they had it redone in red brick, and had a few new rooms added to it: a den, with a fireplace and mantle, where the television was, and still is, a second bathroom, and a sewing room for my now-deceased grandma. They also had a bar installed, adjacent to the kitchen, on the right. It was strictly to accommodate extra dinner guests, though, as both my maternal grandparents were teetotallers. Often it would be used as a sort of makeshift kiddie table, especially when my sister and cousin would come over on Thanksgiving and Christmas Eve. ) In those days, they still had beds in what had once been my Mom's and Uncle's bedrooms, and, at that age, I would either sleep with my grandpa in the master bedroom, or with my grandma in my Mom's old bedroom. For some reason or other, though, I can't remember ever sleeping in between them, like I sometimes did with my parents when I was little. Guess they must've thought it was creepy or something. Who knows.



    For some reason or other, though, I happened to be sleeping with my grandma in my Uncle's old bedroom that time. The only time I can ever remember doing so, in fact, although, in later years, when I would spend the night there, I would generally sleep in that room by myself.



    I had to get up in the middle of the night to go to the bathroom. When I opened the door, there he was, big as life, grinning his evil grin at me. I was so scared I couldn't say a word. I just stood there, looking him over. Undoubtedly, he was the same guy I had seen in the vision. The guy who I thought was gonna chop my head off with his sword. He looked different, though. Since the whole of the vision had been in that green phosphorescent color, I had no idea what color his hair, or horse, or armor were. Didn't particularly care, either, at the time.



    But I had just assumed that, evil as the guy was, he was just the ghost of someone who had lived a long time ago, and, since, he clearly didn't look like a nigger or an Injun, (I really had no reference-point for gooks at that age, although I'm sure I had seen the odd spic or two on SESAME STREET.) he must've been White. Not so. His skin was jet black, although, other than that, there was nothing particularly Negroid about his appearnace. Hell, there was nothing particularly human about his appearance.



    His armor was shining gold and only covered his torso. It was really more of a breastplate than an actual suit of armor. He had black boots that came up to his knees, but his thighs and arms were naked. I suppose he had some sort of cloth-type garment under the breastplate that covered the rest of him, but, honestly, I couldn't tell. There was no light in the hallway except the sheen of his armor and the glowing of his hair.



    His hair was the most unusual part of him. It was of a grey-green color, and would've hung down below his shoulders. And I say "would've" because, you see, it didn't. It didn't hang down at all. Instead, it kind of floated up above and behind him, as if it was afraid to touch his skin. Like the guy was so evil that his own hair was repulsed by him.



    I don't really know how long I stood there looking at him. Maybe a few seconds, or maybe more like a few minutes. He just stood there, grinning that evil, sarcastic grin at me. Finally, he said one word: "Hello." And the way he said it chilled me to the bone.



    Then a new emotion, disgust, gradually began to mingle with my horror. I didn't know if he'd come to kill me or to claim me, or both. But, either way, there was no mistaking the malevolent import of that one word. It was a challenge, a threat, and an invitation, all rolled into one. What he may as well have said was this: "Welcome to Hell, kid."



    I didn't know what to do. I felt like, if I took one step forward, my soul would be lost. I certainly had no intention of stepping toward him, mind you, and there wouldn't have been any point in it, anyway, as the bathroom was down the hall, to the right. (You see, the hallway is laid out in the shape of an upside-down "L" with the master bedroom on the far-left end and my Mom's old bedroom on the corner where the two lines intersect. My Uncle's old bedroom is just to the left of it. The bathroom is in between the master bedroom and my Mom's.) But, needless to say, I was afraid that, if I made any move whatsoever, he would chop my head off with that sword. So there seemed like there was nothing to do but just stand there.



    After a little while, my grandma must've seen me standing in the doorway like a fool and wondered what the matter was, as she sleepily walked over and asked: "What's wrong?" "Don't you see him standing there?" I replied increduously. "What are you talking about?" He was still standing there, right in front of me, but now he was sneering at me contemptuously, as if accusing me of being a snitch. "There's nothing there." she said matter-of-factly. "Go on and go to the bathroom." "I'll turn the light on for you."



    And, I'll admit that, once she flipped the switch, he was gone. I hesitated for a moment, but then went on to the bathroom. When I finished, I went back to bed, and I guess must've managed to get to sleep again, strange as that may seem.



    All I can say is that my maternal grandmother was a very strong Christian, a preacher's daughter, in fact, and really did care about me. She wasn't angry at me for telling her what I did, even though she hadn't seen what I had seen. She knew I was scared and did everything in her power to reassure me. And maybe it was the power of that love that protected me from whatever evil that was there. Maybe no maybe about it.



    But, at any rate, I never saw the guy again, thank God.



    I don't know exactly when it was when most of the bad shit started happening to me. I don't really remember that much about the first couple of years of my life, which, of course, is hardly unusual.



    I remember a little blue stuffed puppy that I got, I guess for my first Christmas. Not to say that I actually remember my first Christmas, though. I would've only been a little over two months old at the time.



    I vaguely remember being in the room that would eventually become my sister's room, after she was born, and now serves as my Mom's computer room. The memories aren't very good, though. The walls are pale gray, and that just seemed to invite the demons in. I remember just a lot of shadows and a feeling of deep sadness. I guess I was sick a lot as a baby. I remember the blue ceramic pitcher my Mom used to fill the vaporizer. And looking out the window from my crib, wondering if there was really any point to anything.



    Most of the trouble, however, seemed to have started around the time when I moved out of that room and into what is now my Mom's sewing room, at the end of the hall. That leads me to believe that this must've been either after my sister was born (in June of 1976) or right before. Surely they wouldn't have moved me out before my Mom even knew she was pregnant.



    I actually remember the day when I moved into that room. They had really hyped it up to me, making it seem like the greatest thing in the world. You know how you have to do with kids. Blue was always my favorite color, so my grandma had gotten me a bunch of kiddie furniture and painted it blue. Mainly a couple of small bookshelves and a toybox is what I remember. I was really happy about moving in there, at first.



    It wasn't long after, though, that they made their first appearance. The attacks had started. I didn't always actually see them, but I always heard them. It was the same sound I had heard when I saw the vision: a bunch of growling, barking, howling vicious dogs. Dogs that sounded like they were on the trail of something or other, and, once they caught it, they were gonna tear it to pieces.



    When they did actually materialize in physical form, they looked completely and utterly bizarre. They were little grey dudes, dressed in outfits much like those of the horsemen I had seen, and armed with some type of spear or lance. They were all inside of these little clear globes, orbs, I believe is the technical term. It was like they were flying around inside them. Sometimes they would seemingly prick my skin with those lances of theirs. Not hard enough to really hurt, but hard enough that I knew they were doing it. I don't know if it was just to get my attention or what, but it was annoying as hell, and they just wouldn't stop.



    For this reason, when I told my Mom about them, I referred to them as "little sticky things". She didn't believe me. She thought it was either a nightmare I had had or, otherwise, just my childish imagination running away with me. And it kept on happening.



    Now, honestly, I don't really remember any particular moment when I had an actual conversation with any of them, but, on some level or another, I know it must've occurred. I had to consent in some form, to some degree, or otherwise, they couldn't have come into me.



    But, you have to understand that, what I'm about to relate to you may or may not be accurate. It's just what this one entity has told me, and he may very well be lying.



    All I can tell you about him is that I first became aware of him around the summer of 1997. He started telling me things about there having been more than one rebellion in Heaven, and more than one group of Fallen Angels. He claimed that he had taken part in one of these rebellions, but eventually had gotten fed up with its leaders, told them all to get fucked, and became a renegade.



    This idea, actually, had first occured to me on Christmas Eve, 1982, and I even referred to it in a couple of my songs, "Still I Dream Of It" and "I'll Go To Idaho (And You Can Go To Hell)".



    Anyway, he's got a hell of a sense of humor, but I think he's kind of a bullshitter. At best, he speaks in riddles, and I have to figure out what he means. Just remember, these are *HIS* words, not mine.



    But, at any rate, he has told me that the reason the demons, of whom he claims to be one, were able to get in, was that, one night, when I was on the floor, (I would always get down on the floor when this shit started, because I felt safer there. Facts are facts, and the fact of the matter is, they never tried to prick my skin when I was on the floor. Only when I was on the bed. I felt like if I stayed on the bed, it was just giving them permission to attack and possibly kill me. When I got on the floor, I would only hear them, not see them or feel them. Needless to say, it was quite bizarre.) the dogs started barking and growling, as usual, and, at first, the biggest, baddest dude of the bunch, who had been the one I had seen standing in my grandma's hallway that night, began to physically attack me, but, when I fought back and told him to leave me alone, he (meaning this entity that I've become somewhat friendly with over the years, not the other one) started laughing hysterically, which, of course, got my attention.



    I asked him what was so funny, and he said that, if he was gonna die, that he may as well die laughing, because those dogs that I kept hearing were after him, and they were gonna tear him limb from limb. I asked him why and he said: "Look, kid, it's a long story." "But the bottom line is, they're after me, and they mean business." "Don't you want to help me out?" "Surely you don't want to see me get eaten alive!!!" I didn't really know what to say to that. I kinda felt sorry for the guy, on one level, but, then again, maybe the guy deserved to be eaten alive, for all I knew.



    This was followed by more hysterical laughter, and then he seemed to change tactics. "Look kid, we understand each other, right?" he began. "I'm not gonna talk down to you like your parents do." "I know you're real, and now you know I'm real." "So here's the question: Who would you rather have raise you, me or them?" Now, given that choice....well, what would you have done? I simply couldn't rise above the sword of his logic.



    I don't guess I ever really answered him with my mouth, but I certainly thought about it for awhile. And I don't doubt that he knew my thoughts. He knew what choice I had made. I just weighed the pros and the cons, and figured the pros outweighed the cons. He had me over a barrel. I didn't like it, but I preferred it to the alternative. So I let him in. And, when I let him in, all the others jumped right in after him.
    IF YOU STILL LOVE AMERIKA, YOU'RE A NIGGER-LOVER!!! ---CGO. 1/20/'09.



    "Lay down your silver and your gold
    I am a man who won't be sold
    And even when my heart grows cold
    I'll curse your evil stranglehold."---Horslips, from "Trouble With A Capital 'T'", 1977.

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    • #3
      Now the question that must, undoubtedly, be asked, once you've read the account that I've just given you, is WHY? WHY DID THIS HAPPEN???



      That's a question that I've asked myself countless times, coming to about as many different conclusions.



      The Freudians would likely claim that the whole thing is merely an elaborate fantasy created by my unconscious mind, in order to cover up some unspeakable, though not supernatural trauma, probably childhood molestation. (Of course, this says more about the Jews and their atheism and sexual perversity than it does about me. )



      They would be wrong, however. I have very few memories of even being alone with an adult male during my childhood, let alone molested by one. In fact, the only time I can remember is once when my Mom and Dad went somewhere together and left my paternal grandfather to babysit me. Asshole that he was, though, he was certainly no faggot, let alone a child molester.



      I would be lying, though, if I said that I wasn't sexualized at a very early age. I guess I was about three or four at the time, but I couldn't have been more than four, because I know I hadn't started kindergarten yet, and I started more than a month before my fifth birthday.



      All my troubles seem to have started around late winter-early spring of 1976, which would've made me three. Although they never really stopped altogether, they seemed to come to a screeching halt right around the second week of kindergarten, which would've been September of 1977, and didn't rear their ugly heads again for almost another three years.



      At any rate, it was either around the same time that I saw the visions/apparitions and the demonic attacks began, or else it was anywhere from a few months to a year later. I had this dream one night that really disturbed me. It wasn't exactly scary, by any means, but it was just so damn real,---realler than any dream I had had up to that point, and most that I've had since.



      I was in the ruins of some Greek or Roman temple, naked except for a white toga. There were three beautiful women, with dark hair and eyes and pale, almost corpse-like skin, all clad in white togas as well.



      They led me by the hand to a certain place, up on a hill, They then removed first my toga, and then their own, and began performing various sexual acts on each other. Needless to say, I was a little puzzled by it, at first, not having any reference point for such things, but it certainly seemed benign enough. They were just kissing and touching each other all over, and they seemed to really be enjoying it. They spoke so softly, so gently to each other, you got the impression that they really did love one another. They had spoken the same way to me, when they were leading me to the place, and it made me feel very safe, very loved,---a way that I seldom, if ever, felt in my actual life.



      Then, after awhile, one of them came over and began kissing my little flacid three or four-year-old penis. She used her lips first, then her tongue, and licked my scrotum as well. I didn't really think too much of that, for obvious reasons. At that age, a penis is simply something you pee out of. No more sensitive than any other part of the male anatomy. But I perceived, even then, that this was a sort of ritual initiation, more symbolic than anything else. And it clearly gave her pleasure to do it, so I wasn't about to object.



      The second one got behind me and began squeezing and carressing my butt-cheeks, which, I must admit, I really did enjoy, eventually sliding first one, and then two fingers up my sphincter, which I *DID NOT* like, but the sweet little girlish giggle she emitted while doing so made it almost bearable---almost.



      Then the third stood in front of me, slowly turned around, and then told me, in the most sensuous and enchanting whisper, to kiss her butt, which I was only too glad to do, as she had such a soft, white, beautiful derrierre. The minute I began to do so, I felt an absolutely magickal sensation wash over me, and I knew that I was one of them. No separations whatsoever. We were one soul. One spirit. I belonged. She then asked me, with a girlish giggle, very similar to the other, to lick out her crack, which I also did, with great fervor. I must've had tears of pure joy running down my face.



      The thing I remember, though, even to this day, is the contrasts in the dream, which, in fact, were quite stark. As beautiful and pleasant as the substance of the dream was, the backdrop seemed very sinister and foreboding. I just remember, at the beginning of the dream, the blackness, the utter blackness of the night, and something about grapevines hanging from the trees. I remember these things, both before and after the main part of the dream, as if the whole thing had merely been a performance on some long-forgotten stage in a ruined theatre. Weird. Very weird. MK-ULTRA weird? Well, you be the judge.



      It's really hard to find out the truth, though, where that kind of thing is concerned. For instance, there's this forum that I've spied on a little bit called Rigorous Intuition, which is really good on certain things like documenting the connections between CIA and the military intelligeence community and the Church Of Satan, Manson family, Process Church, Son Of Sam, etc.



      They're really good at exposing Satanism in general, particularly as it concerns child sexual abuse and ritual sacrifice. But, unfortunately, they're a bunch of rabid Lefties who blame everything on a "secret Nazi cabal", which kinda taints everything they say, at least to a degree. But, although it does seem to have its token Jew or two, there are a good number of posters there who understand that Zionism and the Rothschilds are at least part of the problem. They tend to fall for the whole Fritz Springmeier/David Icke/Alex Jones version of history, though.



      Guess it would be nice if somebody in CI was to look into it a little further, and connect some of the dots, while clearing up some of the disinformation that these types have generated, either intentionally or unintentionally.



      Now, it's true that I had to go and get vaccinated before I started kindergarten, and this creepy, four-eyed fucker in a white labcoat took some of my blood. At one point, either he or some other doctor offered me a sugar cube, but, for one reason or other, didn't give it to me. And I've read that's how they began the process, when they dosed somebody with LSD, was to get the victim to stare at a sugar cube, presumably until it starts changing shape, and they know the drug is kicking in. And I guess I just got some really evil vibes off that four-eyed fucker, and didn't want to let him take my blood. I fought back as hard as I could, kicking, screaming, and yelling, until my Mom finally managed to get me calmed down.



      But I don't really think they did anything to me. I suppose they prefer more passive victims.



      As far as the dream is concerned, I suppose, if one was to scrutinize it closely enough, you could say that the three women symbolized my Mom, my Aunt Sheila, and great-aunt Mary Anne, who, in fact, is about the same age as my Mom. They had been spending a lot of time together in those days. And, I must admit, I suppose I went through the whole Oedipal thing with my Mom, to one degree or another, considering that, aside from her broken nose, she wasn't a bad looking woman, back when she still looked White.



      And I did find Mary Anne pretty attractive as well, with her long, brown hair hanging down to her waist. She used to pet on me a lot, and I really did love it. Her face wasn't all that pretty, but she was pleasant-looking enough. But Aunt Sheila? HELL NO!!! I wouldn't let that fish-faced, Siamese cat-eyed, titless little scarecrow of a woman touch any part of me for a million dollars. Yecch.



      But, for whatever reason, I started to think all three of them were witches, at one point, but, particularly my Mom and Aunt Sheila. (And, in Aunt Sheila's case, it may very well be true.) And I suppose someone or something wanted me to think that.



      After having the dream, though, I became a total sexshul pree-vert, as we say here in Appalachia, and have been ever since.
      IF YOU STILL LOVE AMERIKA, YOU'RE A NIGGER-LOVER!!! ---CGO. 1/20/'09.



      "Lay down your silver and your gold
      I am a man who won't be sold
      And even when my heart grows cold
      I'll curse your evil stranglehold."---Horslips, from "Trouble With A Capital 'T'", 1977.

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