No, this isn’t about smoking. If it were about smoking, it would be about smoking dope, not tobacco. Either way, I got to thinking yesterday about how I’m getting older, and time is flying. I can remember so vividly, like it’s a movie on an IMAX screen, life in New York City when I was twenty years old. I called Brooklyn home then, and lived only a few floors above a small Pool Hall / Bar, and directly on top of (it seemed) the N-line. When boredom set in, it was the perfect excuse to climb the stairs to top floor of the building and quickly get through the rooftop access door hoping the quick sounding of the alarm would be just another meaningless vibration to the ears of anyone nearby. Once on the roof, I could make my way to the edge, sit down and just stair. I’d gaze at the sight before me as if it were a fantasy, a page from an encyclopedia (that’s how goddamn long ago it was – no Internet, Google or digital cameras back then) or a
snip from a movie. I’d sat there and stared like that a dozen times, yet it was still hard to believe that I was gazing upon the most beautiful, breathtaking view imaginable (to me at least). The Twin Towers of the World Trade Center stood mightily towards the rear of my view, as if they were proud parents, smiling proudly over their beautiful skyscraper children in front of them. With the hazy sky as their backdrop, the 110-story buildings were a symbol of power, strength, financial prowess and world-dominance. New York City was and still is Earth’s Capital City, and my presence there gave me a sense of pride and superiority that was as good as any high -drug-induced or otherwise. The fact that I just happened to have a small bowl of super-strength herb with me, and a pipe to smoke it in, all while New York called me one of its own was enough anticipation to literally give my stomach butterflies -not the nervous kind, but the kind that a kid might get when he’s on his way to the amuzement park with his dad!
So the minutes faded into an hour, thoughts from my past flooded my mind as I heard the voices of my parents giving me praise and instructions, I saw the smiles on the faces of my friends as I wondered where they were while I sat enjoying my wondrous view of lower Manhattan, and I saw the demons that always rode on my shoulders, both sides even, and they screamed at me and told me how I reminded them of Satan himself. I laughed until I cried, and then I laughed because I was crying. I recalled how I was always running from something, in search of comfort and peace, and then it hit me how my running, which I’d always hated and called my greatest weakness had brought me to right where I was sitting at that very moment. How could my weakness lead me to a good place? Ii wondered. I heard the lyrics to a song by Rush, “The Camera Eye,” and pondered if maybe Neil Peart might have been sitting right where I was when he wrote that song! I quickly corrected myself and thought of the many other spots, in Manhattan, that he could have been sitting at to receive the spiritual inspiration he did to write those words. He wrote:
Taken from "The Camera Eye"
Grim-faced and forbidding
Their faces closed tight
An angular mass of New Yorkers
Pacing in rhythm
Race the oncoming night
They chase through the streets of Manhattan
Pause at a light
Then flow through the streets of the city
The buildings are lost
In their limitless rise
My feet catch the pulse
And the purposeful stride
So as I sat there and enjoyed the last few minutes of my high and felt sorry for those friends of mine, and the people I’d left out west, because they would never get the chance to be where I was, right there – right then. I took one last meaningful look towards the World Trade Center and thought how mighty it was, and how I might be able to one day show this site, which meant so much to me, to the people I loved, after all, something so big and strong, like the proud parents they were, minding their skyscraper children, would surely be there when that future time came!
Imagine my surprise, when twelve or so years later, I stood in the reception area at my office in some big western city I won’t name, and watched as those big, giant, powerful towers stood burning, like witches tied to a stake. Then they fell to the earth. I recall looking at a co-worker and saying “there goes at least 30,000 people. There are 50,000 people who work in each tower, each day. That’s un-fucking-believable!”
Fast-forward another fifteen years, and I’m driving down the freeway, living in another big western city, thinking about my parents and others that had helped me become the person that I am. I wanted to say “Thank you…” right then and there, as I was in one of those reflective moods where words of love come easy and thoughts can be so meaningful, and wishes come so quickly. I don’t know how or why, but the Twin Towers came to my mind, and I remembered sitting there, on that rooftop in Brooklyn. Those goddamn towers are gone now. Blown up and toppled like they were made of feathers, I thought to myself, and I thought they’d be there long after I was gone.
So ends my dose of truth. You can take what you want out of this post, if you want to take anything at all. What I was hoping that you’d take was the fact that the strong, mighty people we look up to, such as our parents, mentors, friends and grandparents, as big and strong as they are, will fall to the earth like those two towers, and then they’ll be gone forever. Maybe we’ll get to see them again, some day; it’s nice and comforting to think like that, and it’s that very thought that holds the minds of so many people to their “religion.” The religious dogma I was taught as a child, has grown into a web of lies, and brings me nothing anymore. Maybe I’d better just quit writing and tell my loved ones that they are my loved ones.
Speaks Out…The following is taken directly, word-for-word, from a post by a person willing to share his sickening story of what happened to him as a young man in Caracas, Venezuela. It’s not really a story, but more a collection of memories. Say what you will about SRA. The FBI says it does not exist! What the fuck would you expect them to say? Hell, they are fucking direct perpetrators of it; they allow it to happen, they cover it up, they make sure the guilty are not prosecuted and that the bodies of any victims that die are never found…
What I Remember So Far – Grabbed from school:
I would be taken from my school. The director of the school would pick me up from class and leave me in one of the side play areas of the school. I would wonder why, and why there are no other kids. I’d be left there by myself until someone tall would come to get me. He will walk fast, say nothing, just come, grab me, and put me inside a big plastic bag with a zipper. This someone would be my grandfather from my mothers side…
The school closed unexpectedly in 1985 after I completed Year 7. The director took all the money and ran away leaving the school to collapse financially. I was 13 by then, and I think it all stopped then. My grandfather was around 70 by then.
This started when I was five and happened – Regularly, Systematically.
Nothing would be said. Just his look with his crystallized eyes, and a frantic smile that will show sometimes. His smell was very particular, like talcum powder mixed with a cheap perfume. His car would be very hot with no air conditioner. A few times I managed to peek out. It was a dark blue Chevy Nova, possibly a 76, with hot plastic seats, and a particular smell of grease.
Generally I couldn’t see where I was taken. A few times I could peek out. It was somewhere to the south. I remember passing through many slums-suburbs, but Caracas is made of many of them. Can’t remember much from here.
Grooming, Drugging and Prepared for Abuse
We would enter a huge building that looked like a church, with a post-modernist architecture. From the outside it could be seen that the building was made from a concrete structure with white walls. It was cold and dark inside and most of it was covered by wood and steel, and it had wooden furniture. No soft surfaces; it was all hard, sharp, cold.
Certain kids, the ones to be enjoyed on that day will be taken to a nurse station. It would look like a hospital, with white granite floor, white tiles and a strong smell of alcohol and disinfectants.
I was generally taken there. Nurses will come and inspect me. They will clean and bath me, making sure there is not the littlest spec of dirt or imperfection. They will clean my anus first with an enema, and then they will go painstakingly with an oil soaked cotton.
The place looked like a complex factory. A bunch of nurses working around the clock, grooming a bunch of kids. There would be guys that will come around every now and then and make sure it was all under control. They would grab randomly a kid and inspect the grooming pedantically, particularly the anus. They will explode in frantic rage if something wasn’t in perfect order. They would be dressed as a German Nazi soldiers. My grandfather would do this role. He was good at exploding in rage, and screaming, and whiping whoever did something wrong.
The whipping would go without stopping until the nurse would fall unconscious to the floor. I would feel guilty, because I would feel I couldn’t be clean, without excrement in my anus, so that the worker could be spared. I would go again trough the whole cleaning process.
Kids would be treated like objects. There was no human contact or interaction. The Nazi soldiers would be watching and making sure this doesn’t happen. Again, anything abnormal like a small interaction, comforting, or anything not robotic will be punished severely.
I would be dressed in white and be dispatched somewhere else in the “hospital”. In there I would be injected different substances. I think I remember my grandmother from my mother side working in this station. She looked sad and petrified, yet she carried on with the job like a lifeless machine.
The injections were very painful. Some on the arm, some on the back.
Some of the kids would be placed in a pit, shaped like an oval. It would be dark, and we couldn’t see the floor. There would be a selection of kids, the ones to be sexually abused after dinner. These were not the kids to be killed, although they would sometimes throw in dead kids to terrorize us.
I remember one of the first times in there I was walking around the pit and bumped into something. I picked it up, it was a small girl, probably aged 4. She was of dark skin and dressed in white. With curly hair, like a typical pretty little girl. She was dead, cold dead. She was strangled, it was obvious.
I looked around trying to get help but obviously didn’t get any. I just dropped her back in the floor.
This was very traumatic for me. I was so scared. The Nazi soldiers where there looking and not moving at all. The dinner guests where just looking and laughing. They were enjoying my shock and suffering. My helplessness, they were mocking my attempts to do something, to help the girl. But they were just enjoying their dinner, and the show.
They were sitting at luxurious tables and having the most luxurious attention. With dedicated waiters and chefs. The most luxurious dinner possible, with huge tables filled with the best foods money can buy. They had huge lobsters, which is very uncommon in Venezuela, but something only the rich have.
I would remember their faces. They would be many of the most important politicians and celebrities in Caracas. The ones that would appear in articles in the newspapers, nearly every day.
They would be extremely well dressed, and have the best customs and highest class communications. Very refined, and very meticulous about appearance.
We would just be like the lobsters on display for them to choose who to abuse and torture after dinner.
In the background there would be women that would be hanging on the walls. Some of them with a white robe, others naked. They would all be dark haired, none blonde. They all would look like they were 18-25 years old. They were very young and good looking. All of them would be wounded severely and bleeding. They would moan in despair, and sometimes manage to move. Some would be quiet, probably already dead. This was just part of the décor. Nobody would attend to them or even pay attention. They would all be hanged with their back to the wall, and they would look very sad. Some would look like they were asking for someone to help them, but the indifference was devastating.
We were not allowed to look at them or at anyone. If we did a Nazi soldier would spring, scream, and punish us.
Guests would retire, and the room would be empty. I would be taken into a private room and left there, waiting for the guest that had chose me, to come and abuse me.
There were many, many of them. Many times.
This part of the ritual was a relief though. It would only involve abuse, and perhaps torture, in a one on one fashion . No group praying, killing or severe torture. No ceremony.
It was horrible to wait because I didn’t know what or who to expect next.
I remember a Chinese man, dressed like an important executive. He was very violent. It was the worst. He would penetrate me and make sure it is very painful. He would hit me, place objects in me. He would scream, slap me in the head. He would expect me to understand his screaming in another language, but I wouldn’t. It was very irrational, and not logical. Other than screaming his head off every now and then, he would not talk, or communicate.
I remember an old woman. She would act as a nice grandmother would. She would talk nicely to me as she was a loving person. However she would torture me by tying leather stuff around my body and particularly in my neck as if to suffocate me. She would also force me to fondle her. She would talk nicely about it, but if I refused her things would get out of control and she would go into a rage.
There were many more people and times, I can’t remember though.
Confined Space Torture
I can remember how I would be placed in some kind of machine. Things would press my head against the floor of the machine. I would not be able to move at all. All my limbs, everything, would be pressed down by the metallic machine. I’d be left like that for hours, and with my head in a position so I can watch what they were doing.
Electric Shock Torture
I would regain some consciousness and find myself lying down with electric cables on my nipples, arms and legs. Someone dressed like a doctor would administer the electric shocks. They were painful beyond description, and I had no way to prepare for the shock. My body would jump uncontrollably with the shocks. They would chant and pray while this was done, I can’t remember what they would say. It might have been in a foreign language. I don’t think I have remembered all that went on during the electric shock sessions.
Slapped in the Head by all in the Group
I would wake up from unconsciousness. I’d be in the center of a congregation. Someone would take me from a golden object with white linen on the top. They would poor some liquid on me, and hand me over to the whole congregation. They would be chanting. I would be grabbed lying down with my head exposed and my neck bending, not being able to hold my head up. Then everyone in the congregation would slap me in the head. It was very painful and I was very drowsy. I would fall unconscious again at some stage.
Torturing a Woman to Death
They would have a woman lying down in a table and they will torture her. It was as if they were doing a surgery. They would slowly mutilate her, and cut her all over. She would scream until she would loose consciousness. It looked as if their goal was to keep her alive for as long as they could while slowly torturing her. Again it would be a young woman. It would get very messy. They wanted her to be very aware of what was going on.
Part of the procedure for me before I was sent back to the nursing station was that they would tie my legs and arms. My arms would be tied behind my back and I would be naked with a metal object pressuring my neck and chains were used to tie me. They would take me to one of the loos and put my head under the water. There would be two people doing this. One would be dressed like a Nazi soldier, the other as a priest.
I would run out of air and get extremely scared. I would sometimes have to breath in and will swallow water, feeling even more close to drowning. I would wonder if they knew what they would be doing, if they would just forget the timing, or if this time they perhaps decided to let me die. It seemed to be a long time, and as if they were waiting until I gave up all hope. Until I didn’t move anymore, and until I literally stopped breathing altogether. It felt like I stopped fighting in my mind, as if my plan to resist just failed, as I just gave up and prepared to let go and die. I was loosing consciousness. It was very painful in my lungs, and I would develop a severe migraine.
Then the soldier will pull my head out of the water and the priest would pray and speak things to me.
The priest would say many things. He would always start saying “You have no hope, there is no hope for you. You are condemned”. Then he would add more “You are just rubbish, human scum,” “You will never amount to anything,” “You will always suffer,” “You are nothing,” “You are a stupid, retarded kid,” “You will commit suicide when you are an adult”. There are more things said, but I can’t remember them all.
The procedure would repeat for a long time, possibly half an hour to a whole hour. It’s hard to predict. I would be very weak and then left to one side. The effect of the drugs they would inject early in the morning would have gone by now.
At the end I would be sat on a table with handcuffs. A guy dressed like a police man would give a speech. He would say that nobody would believe anything if I say something, that if I did the police would go after me, that they know everything about me and my family, every movement, everything that we did. He would say that they can kill anyone they want at anytime. He would say that there is no escape. They are everywhere and have control of everything and everyone in the country.
—————————————–End of Account…
The Above Account is Similar to Others
Pick up a book on ritual abuse, or check further on the internet, and you’ll see that this story is similar to many others. The types of torture, the Nazi and Priest clothing, the sexual abuse, the elite engaging in this type of behavior…It’s easy to say “This is a bunch of bullshit.” Remember that just because YOU would never do something like this to a child or even a fucking rat, that doesn’t mean other people won’t. Christ, the fucking Nazi scum tried to exterminate an entire ethnic group. Can you imagine killing a child like you’d step on a bug? It’s shit like this that make people like me question the nature of “God.” Sorry folks, but there is no daddy in the sky, sitting on a throne up there watching shit like this and thinking, “boy, when he gets to the other side I’ll make sure he burns in hell!” I’ll tell you what, if there is a great daddy in the sky, when I die the first thing I’ll do is kick him square in the fucking balls! Don’t get me started on religion! Just don’t! Most of my family are hard-core Christians! Well, not hard-core, but honest believers. I try not to let my beliefs out when I’m around them. I don’t want to burst their bubble, and make them think for a fucking minute. You can hope as hard as you can, you can wish as hard as you can, you can pray as hard as you can, but in the end the God I was taught about -the God who loves everyone and everything so much “we just can’t comprehend it” just doesn’t exist. I don’t take pleasure in writing that either. It’s actually very depressing to think that all those promises the bible tells us about (first, the bible tells us that doing good for the sake of a reward is bad, then they tell us about all the rewards we’ll get if we’re good! The bible tells us not to seek after riches and the like, then it tells us about the “mansions” god has made for us in heaven…Fuck! Which is it? Ah, fuck! Now I’m ready to scream.
Here’s a list of People who Love America and “Get It.”
Jean-Claude Van Damme
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