I am shocked — shocked, I tell you — to discover that you NERDS are, once again, running a psyop on me. The necessity of doing so in a “private room” for rent at a daily rate — what is known as “a hotel room,” in what passes for “culture” in the parlance of my part of the world — is anything but inexplicable.
Reports that I am some style of rape-centric, degenerate sleaze have shadowed every aspect of my life, both on-line and off-, for basically my entire post-adolescent life. (Ever since Company bagmen and fixers trafficked me into a “topless dance club” (or, more vividly described as a “stripper bar”) as a matter of fact, and I do not think it at all a challenge of any imagination to fill in the blanks as to the reasons why.) I do not get condolence cards, or apologies written in longhand on tear-stained sheets of perfumed stationery.
Instead, I have had all of my personal property confiscated, repeatedly. I have had my financial resources drained and my income opportunities rent asunder, ruthlessly. I have had my telephonic communications denied to any practical use of them via technological means, openly for the last few years; and clandestinely for the last few decades.
I am hopeful that I am sufficiently describing the diabolical nature of the circumstances that have, until now, surrounded my entire adult life — without being at all obvious about it. Because at one point, I actually thought it was just sheer, stinking, stupid
bad luck. Clearly it can be seen by myself and an unknown number of other, interested and concerned personnel —
THIS IS ALL POLITICAL.
I never asked for this. I had no particular interest in breaking the law by lying to the security staff at an ages 16+ commercial sex work business. It didn't even occur to me that it was something that a person could do at age 15½. And it hasn't occurred to me to wonder at all until now, what the plausibly deniable reason would be, for the men who exhorted me to accompany them, were they ever to be identified (
“Dave’s not here!”) or questioned as to why they were in a car, with me, and drinking Budweise®™ beer with a minor child under the drinking age, also me.
And it didn't strike me until now to think, oh, of course: my father would have been alleged to have been the provider of the alcoholic beverages, and while I have been consistent in my description of the events as myself having been “trafficked into losing my virginity by being statutorily raped by cops,” that's just so wildly implausible a statement so as to not be believable,
n‘est-çe pas? Isn't it far more likely, if I may take the position of the Devil's advocate for a moment, that I was “a willing participant” in underage drinking, solicitation for sex and underworld gray-market drug trafficking, and all of my recent spamming on this website’s forum and in my video confessions of my incognizant associations with those salacious details of what I have alleged to be “crimes by corrupt elements of law enforcement in co-operation with rogue C.I.A. officers” over the last 4½ years, to be merely a result of my obvious desperate yearning for attention from the various people of the world — who are so enthusiastic about finding a new source of narcissistic supply of voyueristic... damn, what's that word? My mind is drawing a blank. Hang on.
* Jackstar is going to go into the bathroom in order to exclude the highly trained Special Agent currently attempting to remain nonchalant while more-or-less motionlessly lying in bed next to him from getting “high,” since it doesn't look to him like that individual was born that way either.
None of this was -ever- my idea. And it would seem to me that whomsoever’s idea it was: a) really despised my parents and some and/or all of their lifestyle choices; b) sought to ensure that I was never going to be able to amount to much of anything in civilized, professional society of higher social status rank than ”degenerate bagman sleaze”; c) did not think it at all possible that I would ever be actually killed and then come back as a paladin on a Mission from God; & d) 👁️ D:
Did. Not. Think. Their. Plan. Through. To. Any. Logical. Conclusion. (Fight-or-flight drug-assisted mind-control schemes tend to markedly resemble headlong non-stop cartwheels of redundant cycles of delusions of grandeur, paired with nightmarish sheets of thunderous terror. That's part of the design spec of the >Ⓜ️K‽Ωl_†®∆ protocol, and if anyone asks me to prove that, I won't. Nor will I have to kill anyone.
#Officially: I don't even have people for that.) ∆_l_l_¡: 🅱️eμond ©↓-Î✔️rπ≤K<Ⓜ️åte.
Perhaps I could make it anything closer to at all obvious about it? 🤔
Doubt. Now: here's this fellow on my left with augmented reality contact lenses with the whether or not he's gonna let out another nervous fart again. ‘oμ‽V∆μ! ″⭕μ‽Å¥!” Affirmative: gonna make the magic‽ hap’n, Cap’n.
* Jackstar is grateful for the opportunity to demonstrate Mastery by demonstratin’ in the B∞∞∞μz room.
Teach (HER) not to jam me up with those rules; cozlik everybody knows that farting is not only allowed — īTZ>K©∞l.
FIRST AMENDMENT RESPECT MY CHOICE Ⓜ️⭕Tī-īË₹>FUK<©μ® — *🆑¡·—>K<*
