Mafia, and fucking in a frenzy on her grave. They also sit on the blasted noses of your clients, Hampton and Clark. You will know a lot of answers and you will also see the predicted percentage of that bravest-of-the-brave run in total fear. You will watch a total disintegration of the moral fiber of many self-declared bravest-of-the-brave Americans.” And then I quoted some of the other items mentioned in the 19 pages, including the murder, treason and genocide that had occurred in the three months since he had heard my offer — and read my papers — for which he could assume responsibility. And I watched Garry’s moral fiber come apart at the seams. Said he: “I know who killed Hampton and Clark. Would it surprise you to know that I was in the room when the guns came in blazing? Hanrahan wasn’t the entire murder source. Those orders filtered down through top Mafia channels. Those same channels ordered the genocide of the Black Panther Party — for whom I am the attorney. I know Hanrahan will be acquitted. That horrible hierarchy will squash anything that steps on its toes. You know what will happen to you, don’t you?” Me: “I have been told by many, and the bribe is now up to a tax-free $50 million — the cheap bastards — they only offer me what Maheu and Dietrich want in their suits.” He: “You’ll get face down in an alley.” Me: “So will you, and your family. You just said it — murder for Hampton and Clark, genocide for you and the Black Panther Party. You’re dead from that source — unless you’ve joined the Mafia, in which case you’re dead too. This cancer is dead. Missiles would do a lot — 40%, maybe 80. As I’ve mentioned, the people at Hiroshima, one tick away from atomic eternity, wouldn’t understand if you explained their future — and would have stayed on their way to the grocery store — for that final tick. So why discuss that matter? You wouldn’t understand it. Missiles are probably enough. There is a way out. Call those fifty together and I will explain it. I will not do anything in secrecy, where it can be squashed. You don’t have to open your mouth. You could watch the disintegration of the moral and human soul of some of those bravest-of-the-brave, and see some real giants among the rest — with new and powerful tools to use. You would have to sit in on that meeting to
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begin to know what it’s all about. How about it? I offer you life over death.” He (slumping): “I don’t understand it.” and he shook his head, “No — that hierarchy would squash me.” Me: “You’re dead anyhow, without a struggle. So die. And take your family with you. Ponds, missiles, new things, whatever.” He: “Nothing can be done.” Me: “Two thirds of the rest of the world know what to do, and have the tools. It’s been given to them. Bridges are burned. How can you defend yourself if you refuse to know of this and block that right to anyone else?” By now, he was slumped almost out of sight in his chair under the desk. He: “What do you think of McGovern?” Me: “He will be assassinated. He is a Kennedy alternate. A Kennedy Mafia. But he has one faint streak of decency — even though a staunch member of the Mafia Senate Club. They will allow no foothold of decency, however slight. They will murder him. One of their purchased own — a Mafia — Teddy or Dickie will be president. Unless, of course, they purchase McGovern, as they did you. Anybody who fucks on Mary Jo’s grave — or, in your case, on Hampton and Clark — is Mafia cancer.” He: “I don’t understand.” Next to “too busy,” “I don’t understand” is the number 2 excuse by brave free Americans whose total moral fiber has collapsed. Me: “Call the fifty together. I’ll explain. Label it ‘Hampton and Clark Investigation.’ That’s enough — they will know, and you will know.” He: “No way.” (That’s what Teddy said when offered the presidency of the U.S.) “What do you think of the convention?” Me: “It is a mass frenzied orgy on Mary Jo’s grave. Mafia faces — from Pat Wyman to Alioto. If Mafia Humphrey had gotten it, Eugene Wyman would be the Mafia Attorney General on the lid. McGovern’s Attorney General would be Kennedy’s Mankiewicz.” I told him about the planned substitution of Mary Jo’s picture for Johnson’s — overlooking the mass-fucking on her grave by the entire assembled group. He: “Do you know Bobby was assassinated?” Me: “Cold evidential fact. Lost, now, around the world. To people who want to know. Non-Mafia people. Non-cancer.” He: “Why was Mary Jo killed? Because she knew too much? Like you?” Me: “I understand you. And, of course, I told you that before.”
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I quoted the case of Whelan as compared to the Korean General who was caught in bribery. Said he: “That’s imperialism — and there are many definitions of bravery. Some work slowly, in different ways.” Me: “Dickie says it’s a game of murder. Yes. And it’s a funny game now. I set the rules. I own the bat. Do I understand that you will not defend the murders of Hampton and Clark or the genocide of the Black Panther Party — in which you are the man — or any of the other murders back to that of Christ — and that you will not attempt to defend the United States from genocide by outsiders in the quest of killing Mafia cancer — and will block the presentation of the facts, and the solutions, to fifty of the bravest of the brave, free Americans — in an open public forum — at which CIA bugging will be welcome? Do I understand that you want no part of this?” He, rising: “I don’t understand.” Me: “Then may I have my papers back. They cost me a lot of money.” He handed me a package, in which all three deliveries had been assembled. But I tried it anyhow. Me: “This is only one package. I delivered three.” He: “I’ll look for the others.” He shuffled around the room. Me: “One was a special publication article on Joanie eating Mary Jo’s liver. I have things like that already labeled on beer cans.” He: “Oh,” and he headed for McTernan’s office. I waited while he shuffled through McTernan’s office. Finally he came back to the lobby, puzzled. “Sorry,” he said, a totally morally disintegrated cookie. A murderer in his own, full fledged glory — quietly standing there like a chastened little boy, “I can’t find them. When I do I’ll mail them to you.” Me: “Thank you, Mr. Garry. See ya later.” And as I passed him he said “Good luck” — and stared at his hands.
He will hang. I tapped him on the arm on the way by.
All the deliveries were neatly in the package. In order. CIA style.
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(And so — call this page 20. On page 19 were the words “On this day, in Chicago, Hanrahan was acquitted by a Mafia judge of the murders of Hampton and Clark.” On this day, in San Francisco, the lifetime attorney of Hampton and Clark, closest friend, bravest of the brave — Garry…bared his Cancerous, Mafia soul to the hangman. He denied the bodies of Hampton and Clark, as 2000 years ago a group denied the body of Christ. He also denied the body of Christ, Mary Jo, my father, his own party, his own children, and the hangman sitting right across the desk, judging the exact size of the cross for the glob which slumped in a chair under the desk. Pure cancer.
He acquitted Hanrahan and absolved the Mafia of all murder. Admitted his participation in genocide, treason, murder and bribery for the three month period since receiving these papers. Admitted blocking the solution to life or death on this planet. His collapse was immediate. I told him “Anyone who fucks on Mary Jo’s busted nose grave, or Hampton and Clark’s blasted nose graves, is Mafia Cancer.” He agreed. I told him, “I had every right — legal and otherwise — known to man, by any right and law — U.S., Old English, Biblical and Jungle, to enable these fifty proposed bravest-of-the-brave to defend themselves.” He agreed. I referred to Senator Nelson’s opening remarks at Miami (re. the Mafia-Alioto-Humphrey California vote steal from Mafia McGovern) solemnly: “Civilizations have disappeared because of such publicly viewed frauds.” And I told him, “The girl who delivered these papers to you — three months ago — was Senator Nelson’s cousin, and also Senator Proxmire’s niece. Senator Nelson knew of what he spoke, and spoke in total fear.” (re. the “tick-away at Hiroshima.”) I did not mention the whimsical nature of the murder — one Mafia monster deciding in secret — Truman, Prendergrast’s whore-house towel washer — against all advice — cloud cover over prime target — sudden selection of alternate Hiroshima for mass murder. The key: one man — a whim — invited a question about a new thing — a new whim (killing cancer) — a one-man affair — one dead man — and I waited — and he itched to ask — but fear took over — CIA fear was all over the office — and he slumped, in silence. He feared I was about to tell him — for whim — right there — and he spouted a quick change of subject — McGovern, I believe. Today, two assassins were arrested outside McGovern’s hotel. It won’t help. There are many. Garry, himself, might be in line. He had obviously been brainwashed before I saw him. Possibly he has been treated to a Sirhan or Bremer type brain bending. Who knows? Who Cares? His total conscious thoughts are cancer. That’s terminal. He said “no” to life. Me: “Anyone who fucks on the graves of Mary Jo and Hampton and Clark, who doesn’t care about their murders, doesn’t care about their own and forfeits any right to life. Said he: “Yes.” And then he said, “You’ll wind up face down in an alley.” Maf always revert to type.
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“So will you, and your family goes with you.” And another quick, quiet change of subject.
This human — called “His Gray Eminence” (behind the defense) at the Angela Davis trial — defender of Attorney Thorne, who defended Tyrone — a Maf who conducted the King’s Castle swindle (Mafia Tahoe — see the Tyrone Papers) for Elliot Roosevelt, Onassis’ boy, via Daley’s Chicago Teamster Union Fund (extortion, by Roosevelt, using Teamster funds to build Nevada casinos — for kickbacks — through the Bahamian cover corporations) — the indignant legal defender of the rights of man — who fought bravely and won the release of Huey Newton and Bobby Seale — whose lifetime clients, Hampton and Clark, were murdered — and who defended their rights after their murders — who used these papers for three months in blackmail of his own involving murder — who admitted he knew of the murder of Howard Hughes — this human is now publicly on record as the defender, “His Gray Eminence” (an ancient term used to describe Cardinal Richelieu), of the Mafia cover-up of the murder of Christ, of the Mafia cover-up of the assassinations, war, heroin, Mafia Election Process, Fatima #3 — of the legal Mafia, as an officer of the court, in very good and quiet cooperation with Mafia Mayor Daley and the Mafia chain up and down from Daley, who murdered Hampton and Clark — of the press Mafia, through his papers scattered throughout his office — Black Panther, Ebony, etc.
One remark by him, “It takes time.” Another, when I asked if he knew of one, only one, brave, free American who could qualify to join the proposed bravest-of-the-brave fifty. Said he: “No, I don’t know one.”
“It takes time.” Monday — McGovern called Teddy — “Please be my Vice President.” Teddy: “No!” Tuesday — McGovern begged Senator Nelson (mentioned previously in here) for two hours to be his Vice President. Senator Nelson — a quote: “I will not accept the V.P. job — not even with a gun at my back, whether the ticket was George McGovern or Abe Lincoln.” Some frightened Mafia people. Correct?
“It takes time.” Yes. My car trouble with the Alioto clobbered car took many days out of my life — at different periods during this Mafia mess — especially the critical ones — such as when Dickie completed the murder of my father. The current car tampering has cost days of my time and will cost many more. Garry’s motive for the three months delay — was delay. Delay of time, for the murders to proceed. My time is what the CIA wants. Time to cover murder, block exposure. Say Dickie and Montini — “Block time, delay, destroy, lie, steal, murder — seize the hour, seize the day — a Mao premise. Time — the most precious commodity — Dickie attempts to corner. But it is not
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in his control. Nor Garry’s. Nor any Maf. It belongs to me — with an eternity bank to draw on. Hang here — hang there. At my timing. Cancer will hang. Time, and life, removed from Hampton and Clark, and Mary Jo — and, at the Mafia Miami Demo Convention, a film of the Time-Life removal from JFK, Bobby, Martin Luther — in a PR perverted sympathy effort — while the entire convention fucked in frenzy toward Pennsylvania. Missing and hiding behind the Mafia shitty skirts of Mafia Mama Rosie, Mafia Martha, and Mafia Lady Bird, were the leaders of our country — Chappaquiddick Teddy, Poucha Pond John, and ‘Pissin Out’ Johnson. Dickie and Montini and Onassis were flat on their backs fucking straight up — at the vague grave of Christ — bypassing their respective spouses — Pat, Jackie and the Virgin Mary — whose lover, a Persian, fathered Christ (See Senator Nelson’s cousin, Senator Proxmire’s niece, for evidence of this. She will direct you to documents. Care to read them?). Respective spouses? It seems I have paired Mafia Montini with Mafia Jackie — and Mafia Onassis fucking the Virgin Mary. Oh well, it’s hard to tell. I know that Montini was jealous when Turk Mustapha’s wife caught her hubby in bed with Jackie and divorced him (see the Canadian Papers) — unaware that Mustapha has Jackie on call from Onassis because Mustapha kept a diary on Onassis — a diary which has since gone the way of the Tisserant Papers on Montini. And around the world the Tisserant Papers are fucking the Onassis Diary. Or is it the other way around? Anyhow, they’re fucking something. Elizabeth Jean Peters masturbated toward Tinos, where her “hubby” Howard was watered down in April, last year. The Chappaquiddick broads and their pimps and the rest of the necrophiliac nation — the U.S. of Mafia, fucked in frenzy in all directions — in confusion — which grave to pick? Mary Jo’s? Kennedy’s World War II” Truman’s Hiroshima? Spellman’s Vietnam? Montini’s anywhere? Cypress Lawn — where my father lies, courtesy of Dickie? Or 1277 — 8th Ave., where I watch Dickie and Montini’s CIA wrap up its fourth year of Time-Life, vulture-pecking at my mother — weakening fast?
Brave free Americans Nader and Gray Eminence Garry, among the bravest-of-the-brave (and they’ll testify to this), fucked like a gyroscope in all directions. Legal Mafia Code: Fuck ‘em all.
Steinem (Barbara Phillips’ partner in Women’s Lib) was at Miami. And anti-women’s lib broads — and anti-anti-women’s lib voters. The
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sexual aberrations this motley group performed toward the grave that held the mutilated dead-fucked corpse of one of their very own — Mary Jo — was indeed a gala spectacle.
Nader’s Kay Pachtner sprawled her Kennedy Mafia ass out under one of those GM recalled cars with a dragging drive shaft. Attorney General Gendel drove the car and aimed it in the proper direction to focus results on Mary Jo’s grave.
Mafia Teddy sailed off with Mafia Mama Rosie and his Mafia breed at Hyannisport, in fear for his life. Garry hid under his desk — in fear for his life. Johnson hid in a foot cellar — quivering. Mitchell buried his head in Mafia Martha’s shitty skirt. You see — J. Mafia Hoover was murdered — quiet CIA murder — heart attack — no trace. Humphrey roars “Politics is like religion.” Shirley MacLaine screams “Jesus Christ” in her finest Mafia Sinatra voice. And Congressman Bella Abzug yells “Goddam it. Fuck you all.“ Dita Beard wasn’t there.
It was a glorious 4th of July type orgy on Mary Jo’s grave. Firecrackers and glorious eagles, and high flying flags, and stirring music.
(From Hanoi — a joint statement by 16 POW’s: “Dickie’s 4th of July bombing — on us — here — left us in total despair.”)
I offered Teddy Prez or V.P. or both. “No!” and he ran.
I offered Garry World Prez or World V.P., or both (Page 2) and he ran.
I offered Dickie and John Abe Lincoln status — freeing us from Mafia slavery — “No!” and they ran.
I offered Montini a cross — Christ’s. “No! No! No!” quoth the Pope.
This night, after Garry’s chat, I switched some things and picked up a sack full of L.A. Times back issues — a heavy paper sack — and tucked some other things in — including an abbreviated copy of these papers, downtown — and caught a bus home. I walked in a bar, where I usually go — a nice bar — and it was busy. Moveable easy chairs at the bar — only one spot open — my favorite spot, but no chair. Some guy was sitting at my right. I dropped the heavy sack on the bar and walked back toward a table by the door and picked up a chair and turned a round and he was right behind me. “Buddy,” he said, “I saw you dump that big sack and head back for the door. If you had gone out that door I’d have been right behind you. I know you. I don’t want to get my ass blown off. I just came in for a beer.” We went back to the bar and someone said:
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“Oh well, even if it’s an atomic bomb, we’ll never know what hit us. What’s the difference?” So — properly prodded — I joined in the fun. Said I: “Well, what it is, is that someone has thought about that. No one worries about a quickie. What frightens them is what’s in here. It’s a creeping jelly. Takes 22 hours to work and there’s nothing you can do but watch your belly button rot away in intense torture, growing worse — and contemplate things like the 2 hours and 13 minutes Mary Jo spent in total torture — in the air bubble — with a busted nose — in the cold pond — or hours of little girl barbecuing near Alioto’s house — or 8 hours on the cross for Christ — or three and a half years it took Dickie to murder my father,” (and by now there were lots of empty chairs) “and sing Mafia chorus songs about assassinations, murder, genocide, treason, bribery and the perversion of the constitution of the U.S. of Mafia, a nation of necrophiliacs, which was purchased by the Mafia in the year…” (and now only the bartender was left, standing sadly looking down at the floor). To him I said, “I have to go home now. May I leave this sack here tonight? I’ll come back and get it tomorrow.” He: “For God’s sake, get it out of here.” Me: “For God’s sake? That’s a valid reason. See ya later.”
The presence of these papers in a room reeks of the aroma of corpses from Chappaquiddick up to date — and back to that of Christ. Mike Wallace said it — from a front porch on a quiet night at Chappaquiddick — a year ago — to friends — and the next day on the air, in bitter tones: “The profanity of Chappaquiddick.”
In Miami — a McGovern questioner: “Dickie and the U.S. CIA hierarchy runs most of the world’s heroin out of Laos — and covers it up. We have presented proof and notified you long ago. You didn’t answer. What about it?” McGovern, who has been covering it up in the Senate for years, said, “Well, I’ll check into it — after you elect me, but you must elect me first — after which I have executive privilege and I don’t even have to say ‘Fuck You’ to you. I can just cover it up, as Teddy and me cover up Chappaquiddick. The democratic thing to do is elect me. And ‘Fuck You.’ “ (This was on TV — none of this CIA, heroin, S.E. Asia bit was printed in any Mafia news that I saw.)
From the Convention Podium — Mafia Boggs: “I was in China on July 4th and someone said, ‘We will live in peace or we will die in terror.’ It is true. We are benevolent — we Louisiana Marcello Mafia. We have allowed some delegates to be here tonight who have never been here before. Thank us for that. We are proud.” (The drunken Maf didn’t fall off the podium once.) “Us Marcello Mafia, who murdered JFK,
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love him — our glorious defunct leader. Believe me. Us Marcello Mafia have made America what it is today.”
O’Brien: “We wish to salute you — the delegates — for showing the world a true example of pure democracy in grave fucking action.”
Governor Pat Lacey: “Teddy is highly qualified to be President and should be at least V.P. — so that he can take over if we have to gut-shoot deer old George.”
Attorney General La Follette — Wisconsin (I last saw him guarding Harry Miller against assassination — glaring at me — at Nader’s cop-out in S.F. on the Consumers’ Federation 3rd Party Platform Pratfall, early October, 1971 — the one where Pat Wyman joined me for dinner, and Joe Belardi and the Maf took it all away and stomped on the ass of Kay Pachtner, Miller and the other Necrophiliac Nader slobs) — a McGovern delegate, said he in passion: “We will organize a draft of Teddy by the convention.”
McGovern: “Immediately after my nomination — my first phone call will be to my master, Teddy, to beg him to be my V.P. Should he say no, I shall then ask him how I shall run the presidency and what I should do. And he will ask Onassis and Montini — as JFK did — and relay back to me my orders.”
Ribicoff — Kennedy, Nader stooge Senator: “McGovern is exactly — I repeat — exactly like our revered JFK and Teddy. He is just as honest. Elect him.”
Valerie Kushner (hubby, a 5 year POW in Vietnam): “Total confusion. Which way to flagellate frenzy? Toward hubby’s cage in Vietnam, or Mary Jo’s grave?” (Jiggling) “Just vote for George.”
Mrs. Martin Luther King: “I sympathize with Teddy. He says he isn’t running because of fear for his life.” She looked up at Martin’s picture. “I wonder. I wonder if George is safe.”
Shirley Chisholm’s second speech started out: “The hour is late. Time for America is running out…” and Mafia Paley’s CBS switched promptly to ten minutes of Mrs. King, Cronkite, Shell Oil — and switched back when that speech was over.
McGovern was nominated. Shirley Chisholm — from Meyer Lansky’s Dearville Hotel , where she had her Presidential headquarters: “The delegates have made history here tonight.” Yes.
McGovern’s first call was from Teddy. Said George: “Thank you, sir, for giving me the Presidency. Won’t you please, at least, be V.P.? What shall I do?” Teddy: “For the record, I decline for the very most real irrevocable Chappaquiddick reasons. I will tell you what to do after I have discussed it with our family father, Jackie’s hubby, Onassis, who murdered my revered brother, JFK, and took his broad and his shotgun — Jackie and the Pentagon — in approved Mafia Senatorial Code fashion,
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and my eternal father, God, Mafia Montini, who owns my eternal Chappaquiddick soul in Rome forevermore — just as my revered brother, JFK, did, and was told to “Holy Crusade” Vietnam and its Heroin in behalf of both of my Mafia Fathers, plus my real Mafia Father. Now, George, that would be, let’s see — 1960, hmmm — that would be Onassis, John XXIII, and Joseph P. I’m confused, George, and my head still hurts where it hit that Dyke Bridge curb after I busted Mary Jo’s nose with a backhand of my fist of iron and bailed out and let her take that flip in the Pond. In the back seat. That squawking broad. Can you imagine her threatening to run to Nader? Big ears on the call from Tunney and back to Alioto, the son of a bitch who blew the 1968 election because of a fucking hit-run on the guy who’s got a grenade up my ass — and it hurts, George. Big nose about Bobby’s club murder, and JFK’s — my papa’s New Jersey Mafia — even Onassis’ heroin into Boston with Papa’s booze in 1932. Goddamn her, George. You just sit tight, George. Don’t you make no mistakes. There isn’t a man near you that isn’t one of my Mafia — Mankiewicz, Salinger, Matt Troy, Fred Dutton, Stearns, Hart, Weil, Douglas, Familian, Palevsky- and you’ll be getting more by the platoons. Montini and Onassis have decided on another goon, right at your side — one of theirs — Symington and Hearnes’ Eagleton. They haven’t convicted him of anything, yet, and they can’t connect him to me. But he’s a ‘soldier,’ Georgie, remember that. Damn! Damn! Damn! You took my presidency! I’m gonna cry.” End of the phone call — and Teddy sobbed in Rosie’s lap, and Joanie stroked his head and fed him liver.
(At about that time, my mother told me to answer the phone. It was some female: “Is Portia there?” “No,” I told her. The only Portia I ever heard of was someone in Shakespeare’s “Merchant of Venice.” A character in a play — and all I remember about her was that she got the job done — whatever it was. I think she poisoned some son-of-a-bitch. And killed him dead.)
McGovern’s Kennedy Mafia cocoon gets their orders from Daley and Kennedy who get theirs from the same source Dickie does — Onassis, Montini, and all of MMORDIS. And they told McGovern to select Montini’s Mafia Eagleton of Missouri, St. Louis where the Mafia group is Cervantes and Shenker (like Alioto-Coblentz-Sweig here) — descendants of Prendergrast Truman’s Mafia call — Eagleton, who will be President in case McGovern doesn’t play ball — like Johnson — after Dallas — will play ball. In the Senate Mafia club code. so go the plans.
A McGovern money aide — lawyer Miles Rubin: We won. Now we will begin to accept big Mafia money chunks — special gifts. Morris Dees and Kimmelman: “It’ll work. We will pass the hat to the capidonico — just as Mafia Stans does for Mafia Dickie.”
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Teddy’s McGovern for Prez — and the Mafia Demo orgy overflows into the aisles — a mass fuck in the busted nose face of Pennsylvania corpse, Mary Jo. A Kennedy alternate carries the banner for Teddy — whose face is buried — deep and sobbing in shitty Mafia skirts. The third congratulatory call to McGovern was from Chappaquiddick Dickie: “Please, George, don’t prosecute us for the CIA bugging of your offices — that would make our campaign look dirty. Remember, as Jack Anderson prints, us Mafia parties have the same boss and we always cooperate in time of trouble. By the way, thanks for helping to get us out of that Mafia ITT mess in San Diego and letting us use your Mafia facilities here behind the moats of Miami. Let’s not have any real dirt this time. It’s like any wrestling match. The people don’t want us to get hurt. Say hello to Lansky and all the Mafia that give you the facilities there and after the wrestling match we’ll get together and cut up the cake. Give my love to Teddy and I’ll see you all around. I understand the Mafia is furnishing you all with a good batch of broads this year. Don’t wear ‘em out, George. Save something for us. We’ll be there next month.”
Inside the hall, a crawling thing is already swallowed — a cocoon. Outside, are forlorn chants: “Aaaah — for the Mafia that owns Miami, Chicago, New York, St. Louis, San Francisco — all the cities, all the states, all America. Aaaah — for the CIA and its Southeast Asia opium network. Alms for the love of Allah.”
In Rome, at the convention start, State Secretary Rogers conferred in a secret back room with Mafia Montini. Today, Reagan carries on the “business discussion” with His Gray Eminence. (It’s about approval for Dickie’s new V.P. — who must be of Montini’s choosing — probably Dallas Bullet Connally, Secretary of The Treachery — and the only Texas Maf who isn’t currently a fugitive from Justice — because J. Mafia Hoover was murdered — and Connally’s file was burned.”
Black delegate: “McGovern has double-crossed everybody.”
Steinem: “You promised you would not take the low road, McGovern, you bastard.”
Ribicoff, who nominated George: “I won’t take the V.P. slot. Up your McBraket.”
Askew, keynoter: V.P.? Hell no — no way.”
Woodcock: “V.P.? Fuck you.”
Senator Quimby (?), somewhere in California, is alarmed that there is not enough transplant material for those who want them — hearts, livers, brains, etc.,
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and so he will write a bill that will increase the supply of those parts (bombing increase somewhere. A use, you see, for all of those gory remnants in Vietnam. Maybe some of you will be wearing POW livers — instead of eating them.).
Wallace, in a wheelchair, and the portraits of two Mafia-murdered, Mafia Kennedys and a King loomed prominently over this dead-fucking Mafia orgy (There was no chance to replace Johnson’s portrait with that of Mary Jo.).
(Not present — hiding — were Meany, Daley, Johnson, Roosevelts, Paley, Pat Brown, Sweig, Lynch, and masses of treasonous Mafia.)
“Reforms would ruin us,” said the Mafia Demo rulers. And McGovern had his delegates vote down the very reform charter he himself proposed. And there we are. Kennedy’s cocoon in which McGovern is swallowed. No reforms. The Kennedy Mafia has announced it will now accept massive chunks of loot. And now the labor Mafia and Vatican Mafia will buy back in — and out of the cocoon will emerge a Mafia butterfly. Kennedy’s McGovern. Or they will kill him in the cocoon — and Vatican Kennedy Eagleton, impressed by the murder — as Johnson was — will carry on. Either way, this was the best solution Dickie and Teddy could work out to cover the murders for their employers, and jointly preserve the Cancer Mafia Election Process. Palevsky — Mafia McGovern money — left in a huff, before McGovern was nominated. (“I don’t need you — I want Teddy.”)
House Speaker Albert: “We will dig the grave and bury all Republicans in the despicable ignominy they deserve. Along with Mary Jo.”
O’Brien: “We have shown a completely truthful and honest convention. We did not hide from any difficult Chappaquiddick issues. We allowed every Mary Jo American to be heard. Openly, freely, fairly. We achieved reforms. The spirit of this convention has been that of leveling with the American peeepul on all issues. I now quit my job as chairman of the Mafia Democratic Party. I am going back to the $50 thousand PR job that Onassis’ “Hughes” gave me out of Lansky’s skim money from Vegas, that assassin Maheu delivered to me and Hubert and Rebozo and Dickie in ‘68 — as bribes . And, like Montini and Bobby Baker and Tony Boyle, I am gonna write a book too. I am not gonna hang alone.”
Flash to Mafia airport, Kennedy International: “Here comes Teddy to bless McGovern.”
Peabody’s V.P. nominator: “We must elect a V.P. We cannot allow him to be appointed by Onassis — or anointed by Montini.”
Texas delegate, on TV: Our Governor, Lieutenant Governor, and State Legislature, are all in jail down there for Mafia murder and looting. Mitchell’s Criminal Justice Chief, Wilson, is a fugitive from Justice down there, and he’s sweeping though the state, looting like Quantrell — as fugitive Mitchell does in Washington. His honor, our State Attorney General, was just arrested yesterday. Us girls are just sitting here clutching our purses. It ain’t safe in Texas any more and this is Mafia Central…Which Mafia TV station are you with?”
Senator Gravel: “They won’t let me speak. That tells the whole story. Now they let me have a word. Elect a V.P. — don’t let them choke one down your throat. The V.P. post belongs to the people. He could be your President — and probably will, the way the Maf knocks them over. I released the Pentagon Papers to you — the peeepul.” (He’s there. Ellsberg gets 150 years in prison.) “I released the Kissinger Papers. Dole censured me. Total secrecy of American murder. American genocide. Priests are prosecuted on phony charges. Kennedy-McGovern Mafia hoods put the muscle on those who would have nominated me — so I hereby nominate myself.”
Self V.P. candidate Smothers: “I ask everyone here who deplored all of the assassinations — and the attempt on Wallace — to stand up.” One human stood up. The rest continued masturbating.
One vote for Archie Bunker. This is a fun affair. And from the mass stupidity and wide-eyed innocence, so plain on CBS-TV, the stumbling and bumbling, one would never spot the directed cancerous Mafia Election Process, steering the Mafia cocoon into the White House — “Montini-Onassis West.” (And that is where I want it.)
Two votes for Roger Mudd — who works for Mafia Paley — oil — who owns CBS (visibly) — who fired Stanton, hired ITT Ireland — CBS — where, having read these papers, they were “too busy.”
One vote for Martha Mitchell — Poucha Pond John’s Mafia mouth.
One vote for necrophiliac Nader — sponsor of Mary Jo’s swim.
One vote for Dowdy — convicted Texas Congressman.
And then the cocoon was complete — Eagleton was nominated. Kennedy’s Hart and Mankiewics held a grave-fucking Mafia embrace.
Strauss, the visible money of the Mafia Demo Party during the years mentioned in here — from Sept. 16, 1968, when Alioto clobbered my car, to the present — quit too. Writing a book, ya know — and other names move in — some visible, all bearing special gifts — Mafia style.
Interlude before Kennedy introduces his new cocoon to the mass orgy. All up in the aisles dancing and drooling. Here comes the Big Fuck toward the grave and they all thrill. (Tomorrow a.m., McGovern meets the
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Committee Of 72 — some of the big Mafia money chunks. If he takes the oath, he gets the loot. He will. Blood lust in his nostrils — and there is no God over Presidents. No law. No check. Just Mafia. Computers will punch out the cash profit per American murder — per non-American murder. The yearly take. As Onassis-”Hughes”-Lansky-Maheu do in any of their Vegas joints. How much skim from the Gross National Product? (41%, under Dickie.)
And then the cocoon shell — Eagleton (first appointed to the Senate, because his Mafia predecessor was caught by Life Magazine, looting tills for the Mafia — Senator Long): “We are learning to live with things.” (Chappaquiddick) “Our faults make us strong.” (Hersh, last week: “Chappaquiddick put the iron in Teddy’s soul.”) “We will not attack Dickie.” (He doesn’t dare attack us). “John Kennedy’s brother will be with us presently. JFK said, “Ask not what your country can do for you — but what you can do for your country.” (An empty cross waits for Teddy — as for Montini. Both testify about Christ: “He died in order that humanity might live.”) “We want to do more for mankind.” (Yes, indeed.)
Hello Dolly serenade — and Teddy appears, with Joanie, in a frenzied, frothy-mouthed welcome. “Great party needs a great purpose. Jefferson beat tyranny. Jackson beat privilege. Wilson set us free. Roosevelt let us share the wealth.” (and heroin, war, Fatima #1) “Humphrey and Truman gave us equality.” (Onassis and Fatima #2) “JFK asked citizens what they could do.” (Vietnam, Fatima #3) “Johnson said we shall overcome.” (Keep J. Mafia Hoover inside the tent pissin’ out, not outside pissin’ in) “Joanie and I ate Mary Jo’s liver. We are all united in our heritage. We have reviewed ourselves. Republicans have had their chance. There is a new wind across the nation — and in this room.” (the stench of frenzied fucking on rotting corpses) “I give you my new butterfly: George McGovern. Join us for liver.”
Humphrey and Muskie (who climbed aboard my back — President and Vice President — on Sept. 16, 1968) — ushered the new butterfly — and all raised their Mafia wings — Kennedy Eagleton and Kennedy McGovern. (Music: “When The Saints Come Marching In.”)
George: “This is Montini’s Friday Sunrise Service. My benediction to Senator Chappaquiddick Kennedy — and, of course, also to you citizens, and also what’s-his-name, Eagleton. I accept my gift — I mean — nomination. I thank the most courageous and eloquent human in this land for the gift of his presidency — the Honorable Senator Teddy Kennedy.
“You, out there — got me to this stage — by small contributions. Open and genuine. I thank you.” (Tomorrow, the Mafia takes over.)
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“The peeepul have nominated me. You will see. We’ll give it to you next January. My competition was the finest America has to offer. Mafia Alioto’s Mafia Humphrey, Vatican Mafia Muskey. Pentagon Onassis’ Mafia Jackson. Lansky’s Deauville Shirley Chisholm. Teddy’s Mafia Congressional looter Mills. Mafia gut-shot Wallace — and all of us despise the assassination attempt.” (This time, no-one stood up) “Nixon is the issue in this campaign — and we’ll kick his ass — all the way out. Albert will dig the grave and bury him with Mary Jo. We chose the struggle.” (Teddy) “Reform the party,” (canceled) “and let the peeepul in.” (we need someone to screw) “This is the time for the truth. I will allow no secrets. Let me inside the White House and I will tell you what is going on. This is the time for the truth. The war. I will end it.” (Shift to Thailand, to protect Teddy’s father’s [Onassis] opium routes) “Never again will we prop up a corrupt dictator abroad.” (We will bring Teddy’s father’s Thieu over here and give him a cabinet post, Secretary of the Treachery. We will bring Teddy’s father’s prelates over here and give them government purchased churches. Father 1 is Onassis. Father 2 is Montini. That’s my public plan) “We will protect Lansky’s Israel and Onassis’ Greece and all of our similar allies — such as Teddy’s father’s dope-pushing Chiang in Taiwan. We will open sealed doors on 40 years of old wars, and conduct the big one right out in the open — Fatima #3, for both of Teddy’s fathers. No American will shed blood overseas.” (You will do it right here at home — Fatima #3 ain’t a one-way street no more) “We must make this a time of Justice. Justice and Truth. Chicken in every pot. Living income for everyone.” (as per my living income over the last 4 years of total clamp and murder. As per Mary Jo’s) “We must show that we are just and truthful. Help me into the White House so that Teddy and Onassis and Montini can continue to fuck you all — in the name of Christ and the Mafia National Interest. We have a dream. We are going forward. Our land — yours and mine.” (leased to the Mafia for one buck a year.). “God give us the wisdom,” (That’s you, Montini, where Rogers and Reagan confer this minute) “to continue the successful fucking of Mary Jo.”
(Music: “Mine Eyes Have Seen The Glory Of The Coming Of The Lord. Glory Hallelujah!” Frenzied orgy in the aisles.)
McGovern kisses Joanie, and then his wife. Teddy shakes his courageous mane and raises his fist of iron that busted Mary Jo’s nose. The soul of iron strides out in glory with Willie Brown (and there was a frown on Martin Luther’s portrait). Bishop somebody has blessed us all.
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Last quotes: “President Kennedy was great. I asked him to come here — and hand me over.” (Bobby’s Mankiewicz saw that McGovern was heir to the delegates that murdered Bobby had collected in 1968 — so that McGovern could bid for the presidency using Mafia murdered Bobby’s dead votes at the 1968 Mafia Chicago bit — murder, you see, and Omerta — part of the game in which you are slaughtered like beef, for profit — say, in heroin Vietnam — object: to save those Mafia rigged votes — that’s what it’s all about.)
(Said liver-eating Joanie, on the telethon: “We must involve everybody.” Very successful as it turned out — one massive dead-fuck on Mary Jo’s busted nose grave. Mankiewicz, of course, was one of the heroes of Chappaquiddick — a friend of Mary Jo. He will be the next Attorney General — replacing Poucha Pond John.)
McGovern: “No-one likes to admit that my decision to run as a cocoon for Teddy came from secret arrangements behind closed doors — heavy since Chappaquiddick — but mine did. With Mafia precedent. Since four administrations of both Mafia parties have charted a terrible war behind closed doors. (Fatima #3) “I want those doors opened.” (The war secrecy — already opened — not Chappaquiddick — not Hughes — not heroin — for which you will die) “The war will move to Thailand — in fact — we will only guard the opium routes — Montini’s top priority. That’s my deal.” (We will bring Thieu over here — Hart and Mankiewicz and all the Kennedys can use him here in our operation — since he is an American trained and highly skilled political genius — and we can always use good Mafia talent.)
(Present at that Lansky Miami Mafia Convention Hall, were mobiles, dangling from the ceiling — you know, tinkling things that dangle in the breeze — in heroin Thailand — to ward off evil spirits. My Dickie-murdered father had, dangling on his string, murdered J. Mafia Hoover and Joseph Mafia Kennedy, and a long string of tinkling Mafia bones. Mary Jo dangled John Mafia Kennedy and Bobby Mafia Kennedy — and fine strings of gossamer thread around the necks of that dead-fucking Mafia orgy crowd. She needs more tinkles on her strings. Tisserant and Father Mootz had a string of Papal bones. There were many more there with mobiles. One of whom was Christ. He dangled one empty cross for Montini (Christ isn’t on it anymore. He got off at Chappaquiddick). There is a vacancy. A huge Miami vacancy — enough for all the cancer. Same cross. Now vacated. These murdered mobile operators will remain around Miami during the Mafia Republican Convention endorsement of Chappaquiddick Montini-”Hughes”-Dickie for that massive Mary Jo dead-fucking orgy. Reinforced by other tinkling bones — including Onassis’ “Howard Hughes,” The Yablonski family, and, and, and…
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Twenty three of the Mafia hotels housing this Mafia Convention, and the next one, are owned by known Mafia murderers — known, nurtured and revered, for the past 47 years — by all who rule the U.S. of Mafia here under the benevolence of Grecian Mafia Onassis and Roman Mafia Montini.
Joanie’s telethon — to “rescue” both Mafia Parties — “We want to involve everybody” — was held at the Deauville (owned by Onassis murderers Meyer Lansky, Sam Cohen and Morris Lansburgh — currently under legal Mafia — automatic release — indictment for skimming $35 million from Vegas casinos for Onassis’ “Hughes” to purchase things like Dickie and Teddy and the multi-national economy of the world via the Miami “Hughes Medical Research” Mafia Money Funnel, that filters Laotian heroin through the U.S. to Switzerland and back — “clean,” washed, unknown, untaxed Mafia cancer loot that provided the food, lodging, broads, booze and heroin for the Mass dead-fucking Mary Jo orgy just held in Lansky’s Convention Hall — and reserved for the next one, which was shifted from San Diego for assorted Mafia reasons.). At any rate, the one who controls congressional loot (excuse me — yours), Teddy’s Mafia Congressman Mills, and Garry’s Mafia Congressman Shirley Chisholm, the black reformer — set up their Presidential Headquarters in Lansky’s Deauville. Lansky lives with Golda Meir in Israel — a fugitive from Justice — as are Mitchell and Wilson — Attorney General and Criminal Chief Justice of the U.S. of Mafia. Said McGovern: “We shall protect Israel, and Lansky, and give them our loot.” The Israeli per capita income — from U.S. of Mafia gift money — alone — is $5,100 per year, per Israeli human. It was called the 51st State. What is it that the U.S. of Mafia gives you? Let’s see — Plato: “Leader impoverishes by taxes, compelling public, full time, daily wants, so… ‘too busy’ to conspire against him…” Answer: The Mafia gives you Mary Jo. Onassis and Jackie, the leaders of Teddy’s Mafia, were not present at the convention. Why should they be? All of Onassis’ Mafia families have delegates in Miami — watching closely to prevent a photo of Mary Jo from replacing Johnson’s — or the mention of her name — while they humped in studied unison toward the Mecca of her grave.
But, as I told Garry — the filming of this is clinically beautiful. And Garry smiled and said. “You know, there are others who are brave and it does take time. It can’t be done overnight. This is Mafia imperialism — in full view of all.” And, knowing that lawyers are the Mafia residue of puke, I wondered about his political philosophy (2,041 of those at Miami were Mafia lawyers — and it only took 1,509 to nominate anything — all flailing away on Mary Jo’s corpse.) — Garry [Unreadable ] lines to Moscow, Peking, Hanoi, Delhi, Egypt, Africa, South America. CIA running in and out in frenzy.
The reason my appointment with Garry was delayed a half hour
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was because it took Jerry Rubin (Vatican Mafia murderer in charge of the local CIA office — a hangover from the days of Mafia ITT McCone at the time of the double Diem-Kennedy murders, which resulted — after Chappaquiddick — in the murders of Hampton and Clark) that much extra time to read my latest papers and make his deal with Garry. When Rubin left, I went in and Garry said, “The hierarchy doesn’t like people who step on their toes. You are dead.” And it hurt him when I answered — truthfully, “So are you. And your family goes with you. It is, as Dickie says, a game of murder. But I set all the rules. I own the bat.” Let’s see, Garry did free Angela Davis, and all of the Black Panthers who weren’t murdered a la Hampton and Clark. Garry angrily labeled things “Black Panther Genocide.” Said he, bitterly, “I knew those kids all their lives.” (Hampton and Clark) I read the news — and things were set up long ago. I judge that three-fourths of the world (by appropriate proxy, and otherwise — Chile to Korea, Boston to Hanoi, Capetown to Platinum Siberia) is fingering this film in a frenzy of their own — and probably bitter laughter. The U.S. of Mafia, a necrophiliac nation, is “too busy” — as at Miami, fucking graves — and “digging new ones to bury Dickie and all the Republicans” — Speaker Albert’s suggestion (He’s the replacement for Mafia Vatican Voloshen-Donato-Heffernan-Sweig Speaker of the House McCormack — who was the chairman of this National Mafia Democratic Convention, along with Mafia President Truman and Mafia President Johnson — not present, since he is a fugitive from Justice down in Texas — together with Mafia Connally and every Mafia public official in Texas). Today, they arrested Mafia Representatives Collins — Texas — in Washington for Mafia looting. He was granted Congressional Immunity and they sent his squawking aide to the can for 15 years. You ladies from that Texas delegation — forget your purses — they’re gone anyhow — just don’t bend over. McGovern said: “America — Fuck it or leave it. We’re gonna fuck it good — fuck it! fuck it! fuck it!…as he wheeled in frenzy to face Pennsylvania, birthplace and grave of freedom — and salute, with his free hand.
Today, in Rome — Mafia Montini — with both hands under his robe — and gazing toward Pennsylvania — satisfied, like old Frazier, the lion — issued a Papal Nuncio: “All confessions of all sins must be made promptly to my priests — in person — and signed in blackmail blood. No longer will we accept unsigned group confessions — such as in our wars, where entire groups are dying at once. There will be no more leaks, like Tisserant. Ours is the greatest CIA of all — Jesus Christ! Jesus Christ! Jesus Christ!…”
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(That’s good. Lots of stuff comes from those confessions — and from pukey legal files.)
The alter ego of “Hughes” is Hughes Tool — Mouth of the Mafia Money Funnel. The alter ego of Onassis, who is “Hughes,” via murder, is Chappaquiddick Dickie.
The alter ego of Teddy is McGovern. Onassis is the alter ego of Teddy. And also his father, via murdering his brothers. Montini is Teddy’s alter Father also.
Vote for either or vote for both. The next President is Onassis-Montini, as it is right now. Sponsors of Fatima #3. My preference — for the title of President — is Teddy (his alter ego McGovern). It doesn’t really matter — but I did give the title to Dickie — via the Sept. 16, 1968 Alioto hit-run — and Dickie did murder my father and Mary Jo — in return. I think I should un-elect him, don’t you? The massive provocative mutilation of Vietnam is merely a projection of Dickie’s frenzied dead-fucking on the graves of Mary Jo and Howard Hughes. The world watches in bitter horror as the pack trains of heroin crunch on corpses on their way to Alioto’s San Francisco and Onassis’ Switzerland and Montini’s Rome.
“I made my deal in a secret room,” said McGovern. “Just as four administrations met behind closed doors to promote a horrible war. That — murder — by Montini and Onassis — was my president.” A horrible truth to the entire dead-fucking nation — who joined in frenzied Masturbating Mafia everywhere, in one gigantic shout of Teddy-McGovern joy in Necrophilia.
That deal was made two weeks after Chappaquiddick — August 5, 1969 — in the home of Henry Kimelman,Washington branch. (Chappaquiddick looked hopeless — even for Onassis-Dickie and Montini. The Chappaquiddick phone calls were out. Everything was out. I had informed Mack, Greenagel, Wright, Dickie, Mitchell, places around here and overseas). McGovern, the “visibly” cleanest one they could find — who still belonged to the club — was called, as he was called in 1968 to pick up Bobby’s dead votes and try for it at Chicago (McGovern was briefed then — along with Humphrey — of Alioto’s Mafia connections — by J. Mafia Hoover, who was himself quietly murdered to “shut the mouth” of the beleaguered Mafia Blackmail Monster). Henry Kimelman is “visibly” a Caribbean (owned by Onassis — see the Lansky CIA Papers) real estate dealer. Kimelman arranged the $6 million necessary to nominate McGovern. The deal? Total Kennedy machine — all Mafia money — Papal aid — to elect McGovern. The price? Eternal lid on Chappaquiddick. And the next day McGovern was at Hyannisport, offering support to Teddy “in his ordeal.” “Kennedy is great,” he said then. And after his acceptance speech last night, he expanded that. Said McGovern:
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“Senator Ted Kennedy is the most courageous human in America. Teddy was great.”
All of the reforms are now squashed. All of the Labor Maf, Jewish Maf, will be back in the fold. Wallace, properly admonished by gut-shot, will remain in the Demo fold thus retaining votes that Dickie got last time out. Kimelman is now funneling the Major Mafia Money chunks which now take over. Bright eyed young McGovern fanatics were fucked by McGovern while both he, and they, held that Mass — a Mass of dead fucking on Mary Jo’s grave. Said Gloria Steinem (whose partner, Barbara Phillips, read this shit), to McGovern: “You bastard — You shafted us.” Not really, because Sinatra, who was in on Lansky’s Miami deals (his hearings on this were squashed in the Mafia Congress, just prior to the Conventions) — Sinatra, the Mafia, succeeded in getting “Jesus Christ” Shirley MacLaine appointed to the National Democratic Committee.
Victorville Army Base — late World War II. Bomber crews returning from Europe for reassignment. This day my job was picking up things in front of the headquarters with a stick with a spike on the end of it and putting them in a sack I carried. Up the walk a batch of 50 mission crush officers surrounding their leader. I paused to watch the show. The leader smiled at me — the same smile I saw on TV in Miami — and they went up onto the porch. A sudden shell and there was the wrath of God — the leader — flanked by a few — snarling at me. “Don’t you know how to salute, soldier?” Me: “Yes, but I have a stick in one hand and a sack in the other. I didn’t know I was required to.” He, livid: “ Yes, what, soldier?” Me: “Yes, Sir!” He: “A salute is a mark of respect. You will salute me and you will salute these men. Now, soldier! Or I’ll court-martial you into the next war!” (I was confused. So were some of the others). I handed him my stick and saluted. He passed the stick back and returned the salute from six inches, like venomous spit in my face. He left, and I kept my back to everything, bent over, picking up things, until that group of heroes left the building. If you don’t see them, you don’t have to salute — this I knew. Later, Bill Ross, a friend, who worked at headquarters, came out. “Who was that? He was gonna court-martial me, and the rules state that I don’t have to salute when I’m on duty with my hands full.” Said Bill: “His name is McGovern — and he could do it, too. He’s quite a hero.”
So is Bill Ross. Bill Ross was the campaign manager for ex-FBI Agent Club Member (Maheu variety), Evelle Younger — who covered up the Bobby Kennedy murder in L.A. — for the Mafia — as D.A. of Los Angeles. Younger is now State Attorney. Gene sat on the lid (his assistant was Neil Gendel, who quit, calling Younger a Mafia son-of-a-bitch, and yet running himself with Kay Pachtner,
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a necrophiliac Nader Chappaquiddick broad — away from these papers.) So is Bill Ross — for, you see, in 1974, Mafia Younger plans to run against Mafia Alioto for Governor of California, to replace Ronald Reagan. Other candidates from the Mafia legislature will also decorate the Democratic show — announcing interest, so far — are Mafia Moscone, Mafia Moretti, and Mafia Pelosi (whose two daughters — Newsom’s nieces — were barbecued during the middle of the “Look” Alioto Mafia trial — in order to win a verdict by forcing all the judges, jury and attorneys to put out the fire and smell the stench of barbecued girl flesh. Also running will be Mafia Willie Brown, who left the Mafia Miami Convention Hall, clutching the fist of iron that crushed Mary Jo — the soul of iron — Teddy Kennedy — the most courageous man in the U.S. of Mafia. Dick Carlson, who wrote the “Look” Alioto Mafia article — my Dickie-appointed investigator of the Sept. 16, 1968…oh shit, I’m sick. Pardon me while I puke.
At any rate, I salute you, George McGovern. I shall even aid to attain your goal. And I do elect and un-elect Presidents. And Popes. And such things. Proven. By Computers, George. I want the very tinkliest tinkling things on my mobile — an eternity Yo-Yo. You qualify — with the rest of the cancer.
An ex-CIA friend has put together all the law. Boiled down, it says: “Anyone who dead-fucks on the grave of Mary Jo and all that is buried there is guilty of every major crime known to history and Christianity. That one is Mafia — is Cancer — is Death. That one must be destroyed. All of those ones must be destroyed. Or, as with cancer, all will be destroyed.”
Coming up — next month — same site — Miami — Month of the Onassis “Hughes” Mafia Money Funnel — the Republican Mafia — behind the same Mafia moats — will meet — far removed from Mafia C. Arnholdt Smith’s San Diego. (He is currently indicted for fraud and Mafia muscle. His partner, Schulman, is the employer of Thelma Golding — a Portland Maf. Thelma sent my mother a murder sympathy card — re. my Dickie-murdered father. Said Thelma: “Watch out for that son of yours.” (me). “He’s a son-of-a-bitch. Everything that’s rotten.” My mother cried. It had only been two weeks since Dickie murdered my father. Three and a half years and my mother was almost dead, courtesy of Dickie. A note from my daughter’s mother states that my daughter — age and beauty of Mary Jo Kopechne — is weak and has black-out periods. My mother barely toddles. I don’t know Thelma Golding — met her once, said hello, many years ago. But I do understand. Murder of my mother —
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and my daughter — by Dickie, Montini, the U.S. of Mafia, a necrophiliac nation, which is “too busy.” Too busy to die.
Dickie and his Mafia use two-handed strokes, like Montini. That Miami Mafia meet will be the fuck of the century. “The Show Must Go On” — Mafia Sinatra, McGovern, Teddy, Eagleton, Dickie, Montini — all say this. So, what — after that — dead-fucking Mary Jo — do they do for an encore?
A 2000 year old fuck festival. A real gang bang. They ate his liver — all of them. Now for the finale. Gang fuck on Christ. Gang Bang.
One of Charles Manson’s murdering group, a female, said: “Fuck. And just as he blows — kill. What you get is the fuck of the dead.”
Nader’s Chappaquiddick broads. “Hughes” Elizabeth Jean Peters. Joanie. Mama Rosie. Barbara Phillips. Women’s Liberty. “Jesus Christ” Shirley MacLaine. Lansky’s Deauville Shirley Chisholm. Onassis’ Jackie. John’s Martha.
Gotta be nuns — at least. Potential Virgin Mothers, all. U.S. of Mafia for sure. Part of a necrophiliac nation that fucks the dead — including, for a finale, a gang bang — the massive fucking of Christ. (Said Betty Waterhouse: “Christ was a shit disturber. He deserved what he got.)
Manson’s broads were innocent — by Presidential Precedent. Alioto was innocent. Pure. By that same precedent. Teddy’s Chappaquiddick purity was established by the precedent of Christ’s murder. Murder is innocent — by precedent. Vietnam — a Papal Holy Crusade — spare parts for California legislators — POW livers for sale in the hock shops — individual confessions required — mass war murder, or otherwise, like in ponds. Genocide is innocent, by precedent — legalized be the U.S. of Mafia cancer, the Roman cancer, the Grecian cancer. Garry agreed with this — re: his own affairs. No court to take it to. The court is cancer — a sum of its parts.
That’s how it is. Gang bang on Christ coming up. Charging up to that cross they’ll get splinters up their frenzied organs. He isn’t there. He got off at Chappaquiddick. After 2000 years of indignities — he wouldn’t take any more. But don’t worry about the splinters. You will find yourself contemplating your navel for the next 22 hours, as it rots away.
Slip of the tongue. On his just completed world tour for Dickie — passing out Mafia loot, plugging leaks and searching for Tisserant’s papers — Secretary of the Treachery Connally stopped at Kabul, Afghanistan. Waiting for him there was Dr. “Red” Duke — who plugged up the hole in Connally’s chest from one of Oswald’s bullets at Parkland Hospital in Dallas, Nov. 22, 1963, where Connally and murdered JFK were taken. (Just after Chappaquiddick, the famous surgeon, Dr. Duke, was shipped to the lonesomest mountain in Afghanistan
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to minister the medical needs of occasional goat herders in the Jalalabad area — try to find it on a map.) Only Connally, Onassis and a handful of Mafia know how to get a message to him. But they did. And famed Dr. Duke came into Kabul on a mule to meet Mafia John. Afghan greeters were surprised when Connally Mafia embraced “Red” Duke and explained: “This man saved my life. He plugged up the hole in my chest from Oswald’s bullet and he fixed the other bullet, which is still in my neck, so that it doesn’t hurt too much.” Said one surprised Afghan mayor: “But, Mr. Connally, there were only two shots fired — your government says — both by Oswald. If you caught both of them — fired from behind the car — who fired the one from the front that entered JFK’s throat — as he was looking up — and blew off the back of his head — spattering brain tissue in the face of a cop on a bike behind the car — you know, the cop, who, just after Chappaquiddick, was shipped to Onassis’ sanitarium on the Greek island of Tinos — the one from which Howard Hughes was lowered… Mr. Connally? Where are you going? Come back. You just got here…” Too late — Connally was gone — en route to Rome.
A hippie was standing nearby. “Mayor — your fuzz — I’m an American. To uphold the honor of my country, I’ll answer you. Maheu’s Roselli, from the original CIA Maheu Castro assassination group, fired the JFK head-blowoff shot from the overpass — in front. Two more shots were fired by two of Mafia Marcello’s finest — one near the overpass and one from the grassy knoll. They missed — in that CIA crossfire — because Roselli’s first one got Kennedy. Everybody missed in Chicago, on Nov. 1, 1963, on JFK, but they batted .500 on that day anyhow: Onassis-McCone’s Captain Nung blasted Diem at a railroad crossing in Saigon as a train roared by (Daley, in Chicago, murdered Hampton and Clark — after Chappaquiddick — because they knew of the Chicago end of this). Maheu’s Gene Cesar got Bobby with three shots in the back of the head — from a foot away — while hypnotic Sirhan shot up the rest of the room — from in front. Teddy busted Mary Jo’s nose and let her flip in the pond at Chappaquiddick — as he bailed out on the bridge — because she knew this — she was with Bobby in L.A. — and because she heard the Chappaquiddick calls — plug-in phone, behind the day bed — from Tunney and to Alioto — in S.F. — about the Alioto hit-run on Roberts’ car on Sept. 16, 1968, that elected Dickie to the presidency. Hypnotic Bremer missed on Wallace, but scared him into line. Kennedy’s McGovern will win because Roberts wants it that way. For filming purposes.”
Mayor: “If this is so, why are you here — in poverty? Why doesn’t all of America and the world know? Why don’t they do something about it?”
Hippie: “Who’s to tell them? What makes you think they don’t know? Why should they do anything about it? They’re in it. They’re Mafia Cancer too.
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“For instance: the New York Times got a Pulitzer Prize for publishing the Pentagon Papers. Since they were out, Senator Gravel got a V.P. nomination for issuing the Pentagon Papers. President Johnson made $2 million by issuing a book of them to cover his own tracks. Ellsberg got 115 years in prison for releasing them. Said Ellsberg: ‘If I’m a conspirator, then the U.S. Constitution is dead.’ (It is). ‘If I’m a spy, then the American Public is the enemy.’ (It is. Necrophiliac Nation — U.S. of Mafia). ‘If I am a thief, then the government, not the people, owns history.’ (It does. Back to the murder of Christ and forward to Fatima #3). Me? I am here because I was hyped for 30 days (as was John Tunney’s sister — just before she chopped off her hubby’s head — when she was sent to Norway — after Chappaquiddick — because she heard John Tunney’s opening Chappaquiddick phone call to Teddy at the cottage — made from her S.F. home, about Alioto’s desperate try to be Governor over Tunney’s fucked body) — and I was dumped off here with a habit. Those nomads over there, with the guns — see them? Those guns are loaded. If Dr. ‘Red’ Duke doesn’t get back on his mule and head for the hills — he’s dead. And if I don’t get a fix and go back to my hole, I’m dead — two ways — heroin and them. And since you were stupid enough to ask this question — and I answered you — in full view and hearing — what do you think of your future, Mr. Dead Mayor Fuzz?”
And that’s the way the cancer spreads. World wide trail of Cancer Conally, for instance.
George — castigating the yardbird — in the desert sun at Victorville — was unconstitutional. I was correct. Army law says this. He was a 50 mission crush murderer then — spreading smart bombs from a mile high on sandwich meat — Tanya’s — crucified by Heroin — Mafia Roosevelt — Kennedy — Onassis’ World War II — Fatima #1. Today he carries the banner of Fatima #3 for Montini-Kennedy-Onassis-Dickie and all of MMORDIS. Vicious, unconstitutional, murdering them. And Mafia ambitions — a completely treasonous, cancerous glob — sucked up and sucking the cancerous ass of Mafia. Dead-fucking Mary Jo with Teddy. Gang banging Christ.
My job, that day, was picking up garbage — “flushing shit.” Elizabeth Dale, the ex-ITT broad — who wears a 62-carat heart shaped sapphire — originally offered to Dickie’s wife about Aug. 5, 1969, the date that Kimelman made his secret deal about Chappaquiddick with McGovern — said to me, shortly before my father’s murder, “I might kill you myself. You have no right to play with people’s lives.” She was wrong, of course. These are not people. Cancer. And I am not playing. Cancer goes. My finger won’t be on any of those nuclear buttons that will be pushed. I won’t personally conduct a final experiment — interrupted when Alioto clobbered my car. The cancer is responsible for its own death — in the very process of consuming its host — the human lunch. Said she: “You’re insane.” Said Al Strom: “He’s not insane. We’re all insane.”
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In that, of course, is a decision matter for a higher judge. For instance: the man who left the cross — in anger — at Chappaquiddick — and patrols with a bloody fucking meat ax — after cancer — all of it — who’s a friend of mine. Whose “Personnel Manager in charge of Placement and Hanging and Decisions about Anything That Came Up To Me To Disturb Me In My Extermination Of Cancer” — I will be. Am now. With or without His approval. Precedent, anyhow. That’s what He’s doing too.
Me, to a returned McGovern delegate: “I wish to help elect George President.” “How?” said he. I handed him a copy of this. He read. And said, “But you prove that George McGovern is the rottenest of all rotten cancers — and I note that you have other affidavits that add to that. How will that help elect George? We all know that Dickie is the rottenest of the rottenest cancers.” Me: “I have proof that McGovern is one fraction of a degree rottener than the rottenest of the rottenest — Dickie. And therefore he will win — since computers prove that the Mafia rigs the vote in favor of the absolute rottenest — and the rest of the necrophiliac nation votes that way too.” He: “Very good. Now what do you want out of this?” Me: “Well, me and a buddy — his name is Christ, and he got off the cross at Chappaquiddick — we’re looking for top tinkling mobiles to dangle on eternity yo-yo’s. I wish to prod George in the ass with my Victorville swagger stick, that I speared cigarette butts with, all the way to the White House, and then jamb it all the way through — asshole to belly button — Mafia style — and hang him on my mobile — and the same with Dickie — whom I elected last time out. I have a thing about Presidents on my mobiles. My buddy, Christ — he goes for Popes. Tisserant goes for Cardinals, Bishops, and on down. And Mary Jo has been given all of you Kennedy cancer. While you were gone I let your wife read this and she was watching you dead-fuck Mary Jo down there in Mafia Miami, and I told her I was a carrier of syphilis, gonorrhea, and a new type of creeping Chinese crud, a 22 hour belly button rotter, highly infectious, and ‘let’s go to bed,’ and she said ‘beautiful’ — and then I read where you arrived home last night — and how do you feel? You look sick.”
He: “I’m too busy. I don’t understand. I gotta go home.” He went out the door. I stood in the door and came to a full McGovern salute and shouted after him, “But, Sir — this is your home. I know. I was here before — fucking your wife — a dead fuck, you might say — while you were dead-fucking Mary Jo in Miami. Come back so we can elect George. I have a plan for a gala that will be better than the Dickie campaign plan for a gang bang on Christ in Mafia Miami next month at the Republican Mafia Convention!”
He never looked back. Do you wish to know the name of this delegate? And the broad? She’s cute. I gave her a list to sleep around with. After the job is done, I’ll tell you.
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All right — Dickie, Connally, McGovern, Teddy — while you’ve been fucking dead Mary Jo — in frenzy — and murdering my father — I’ve been fucking your wives. 62-carats of heart shaped sapphire up President Patty’s ass — anonymous ITT letter up Martha’s — Mary Jo’s liver up Joanie’s — Onassis’ chancred cock up Rosie — Mustapha up Jackie — “Red” Duke up Nellie — Virginia Kimelman into Eleanor — virgin mothers, all of these — recalled GM drive shaft up Pachtner — Sinatra’s “Jesus Christ” Shirley MacLaine up the Women’s Liberation of Barbara Phillips — double dose of Hampton and Clark up the wife of Garry. All in the name of Christ and his Virgin Mother Mama and his Persian Pa — and his brother. Motherhood — Chappaquiddick broads, all of these, dead-fucking Mary Jo.
If these now diseased mothers — virgins all — are not cancer — what are they doing dead-fucking in frenzy on Mary Jo’s grave?
Fifty? Brave, Free American Men? Go back through here and count the number — and then those on the tapes, in the documents, in the film. All are now crawling back into those cancerous wombs in shivering fear. Mafia Montini can’t crawl into his Mama because she’s non-Vatican — Jewish. Montini hung Bishop Camara’s Priest on a cross in Camara’s Brazilian Cathedral because Camara published these facts — and today, Montini’s Medicis, who run Brazil for him, have issued a contract on Camara — and Montini just flails away toward Mary Jo’s grave — with both hands — “I don’t care if I am God — I quit, I quit, I quit…” But Brave Free American men, such as McGovern’s most courageous man in America — Teddy: “America begs me to be President and Vice President. I quit. Joanie fears…”
Mitchell: “I have it all now. I can keep it. I quit. Martha fears…”
Connally: “I have it all now. I can keep it. I quit. Nellie fears…”
Alioto: “I could be Governor now. I quit. Until after J. Edgar Hoover is murdered.”
Nelson: “V.P.? Not even with a gun at my back. I quit. My wife needs me.”
Wallace: “They gut-shot me. I quit. I’ll be a good Demo.”
Johnson: “Hang separately.”
Said Dickie on the 4th of July, as he smart-bomb murdered 234 POW’s — ours: “America is: The flag, motherhood, and apple pie.”
The flag: Trampled into the ground in Montini-Onassis’ Fatima #3 Vietnam, where Dickie and Teddy’s Heroin mule trains trample over rotten corpses — and Gulf of Tonkin McGovern flies a mile high, lobbing smart bombs and preaching peace in the name of Teddy’s bubby — who pushed open those Papal gates for Onassis — just as McGovern did in Catch 22 (written about him by a fellow squadron commander, Heller, who describes American — enemy paid — pilots, destroying their own air base in Genovese’s Corsica).
Motherhood: Dead fucking on Mary Jo. Gang banging on the slivered, vacant, festering cross of Christ.
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Apple Pie: So far in my research I’ve discovered only DDT — and a very ancient poison — used in Europe on rats — frequently by the Maf — such as Maheu — when the CIA hired him to assassinate Castro (Castro lived. He didn’t eat the apple pie) — expounded locally by Sacha Volman, who operated with Superior Court Justice Douglas (Vegas Stardust) in the Caribbean on behalf of the Onassis-Lansky-Kimelman Maf (and who also expounded the Stardust hypnotic bit that belched up Sirhan, and later Bremer) — a poison which causes — in order: 1) Languor, 2) Shortness of breath, and 3) Heart block (That’s dead, baby. Ha Ha.). In an older person the first two symptoms are not even visible. Death occurs too long after administration to finger the murderer. The chemical is burned away in the process of doing its job — just as were the chemicals in the oil of my Alioto-clobbered car — and in the transmission of my next one (number three goes in tomorrow). This Onassis-Volman medicine was administered to J. Mafia Hoover — at a very critical time — just before Peking — in apple pie. Its faint odor is that of apple pie. No CIA Mafia ever eats apple pie.
Lastnight. Betty Waterhouse: “Did you murder my husband? They asked me if I wanted an autopsy — it’s a law — and it’s free — and I had it within five minutes. Maybe your mother put the poison in the apple pie. What evidence did you discover? Where is your brother? Where is that old car? Why would your daughter’s mother worry you with a letter saying that your daughter has lately developed languor and fainting spells? How is your mother? Your father was giving you and her a lot of trouble. My husband and I were in Hiroshima — six days after it happened. It wasn’t so bad. Just part of the war. Here is a certificate of appreciation — about my husband’s career — from Richard Nixon — notice it’s his real signature — shaky and minute — and here it is again, notifying me that I shall have free rent for life — no worries. Isn’t Richard Nixon wonderful?”
Pressure on me. Family death. Money. Threats. Insults. Taunts. Isolation. Certain ‘areas’ wish to force me onto their sphere. The Mafia here wants to force me to fall in with them. The System. All hope I drop dead. And fear just that. They miss the point — deliberately — because they, too, know — all we’re waiting for is the gang bang. It is so arranged. I have no sweat. It’s only those jittery countries that nervously jiggle about Fatima #3 — and cause Dickie’s hierarchy to scurry around the world, checking closely on Montini’s hierarchy, to suppress more tightly, and massive Miami Mafia conventions to dead-fuck Mary Jo in frenzy. It is the eye of the hurricane. Seeded and growing toward a gang bang. Only one way out. Straight up. A deal with a friend. Hang them here, and stop the storm, or take them along and hang them there.
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Pressure. Mafia Ma and Pa Kopechne, parents of the much dead-fucked Mary Jo, on to Rome: “We don’t care if it was murder. We are satisfied.” My mother’s brother did this and is still running — south — while Dickie and the bunch peck away at the ardor of his sister. My brother — running during this three and a half years of torture on my father — arrived on schedule — an hour after the murder was complete — delivered a five minute Mafia lecture: “Lay off Alioto. You got what you asked for. I know he was poisoned. They rolled over two that way recently in Idaho. They’ll get J. Edgar Hoover.” (They did.) “I’m too busy. I gotta go,” and he took off running and white-faced — without a glance, a flower, or a word to the murdered man — his father. Three months later, a card to my mother: “Watch that bastard — he’s expensive.” (me). Mother cried, and wilted further — remembering his three and a half year run — his arrival, then Mafia message, and his quick, cold disappearance. And it is indeed depressing to watch the disintegration of human moral fiber into a glob of cancerous shit. The card was mailed from the home of Thelma Golding — the Portland Mafia who works for Mafia San Diego Smith, who works for wonderful Richard Nixon, who works for Onassis, and all with the blessings of Montini, the Deputy of Christ at Auschwitz — God — who owns Sweig’s Masonic branch — to which my brother belongs.
Let us pray: Holy Mother of God, Holy Virgin Mary, Jesus, fruit of thy womb — splinters from the empty, festering cross up snatches — fucking in unison with Teddy at Miami, toward Mary Jo’s busted nose Pennsylvania grave. Lemming practice session for the finale — gang bang on Christ.
Me, answering Betty: “Dickie who? Wonderful? Oh yes, I remember. He’s the one who murdered my father. And a true, quick thinking executive. Recently he had a choice of murder — J. Edgar or Alioto. Both had the same blackmail files. I told Mack I had given Alioto a set in June, 1971. J. Edgar was alone — no family — nothing but blackmail enemies. And, on the other hand, there are 4,500 actively breeding Mafia Alioto cancers (some of whom do work on my cars) — and a world wide web of cancer connections. It was an easy choice. Alioto was declared ‘pure’ by Dickie’s judge, and J. Mafia Hoover was declared dead. The most powerful man in the world quickly silenced — and suddenly not even remembered. Files gone (so they reason). And ‘Pure Joe’ is running again for Guv. You see, Betty, in Alioto’s first major trial — Sam Goldwyn — the judge — ate apple pie at the start of the trial, and had a heart attack in the middle — and Alioto won the case. In his second major trial — about Alioto’s Mafia web — little girls are too young for heart attacks — a barbecue was better — as long as the judge, jury, and attorneys put out the fire and breathed deeply of burned baby girl flesh. Alioto was declared innocent. In his third major trial — about bribery, extortion, etc. — we had an older judge
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who liked apple pie — and he heart attacked — right on schedule — dead center of the trial. Alioto again won, easily. Just before his fourth major trial — and this would have meant 45 years in the can for ‘Pure Joe’ — J. Mafia Hoover ate apple pie and heart attacked, and ‘Pure Joe’ walked up to that judge and squinted pointed to the big badge he was wearing which said ‘Pure Joe’ and the judge said, ‘I hate barbecues, and apple pie, and I ain’t taking no chances — no way — on this even getting to the jury. I declare this saint to be innocent — and I certify him to be Pure.’ And this is how it is that Alioto is the only public official in the United States certified to be ‘Pure’ by both Dickie and Montini. Not to be confused with Teddy’s certification by Dickie, McGovern and Montini — ‘Most Courageous Man In America.’ And this is how, Betty, it is that executives of the nature of ‘Wonderful’ Richard Nixon are created. May God bless us all. And, with ‘Pure’ clarified, Edgar ossified, and Wallace perforated — Martha bubbled ‘Get these fucking CIA hoods out of my Chappaquiddick bed. I’m sick of Mafia gang fucks. Fuck them — or fuck you, John.’ Well, trembling Poucha Pond John quit everything and rushed to Martha’s bathroom and stuck his bald head in and screwed himself all the way up. Wrong hole — as usual. Poor Jawn. Gone back to where he came from. And since you, Betty, receive unlimited funds from Dickie, whose shaky finger personally signs the check — the shaky finger that pushes buttons — then let’s calm him down a bit. I elected him to that worrisome place — so tell him I’m gonna let him out. I’m gonna elect Teddy McGovern — and then collect these ‘Pure,’ ‘Courageous,’ ‘Wonderful’ ‘Presidents’ on a Victorville skewer — a shish ke bab — as they pass to and from the oval office daisy chain — and hang them out to dry on strings that tinkle — forever — a place in history.”
She: “I’m gonna vote for McGovern.”
Me: “The last time I saw you, the evening before my father was murdered, I told you that I was the hangman and that I would hang you, and you said that Christ was a shit disturber and deserved what he got.”
She: “I’m not saying that anymore. I’m too busy. I don’t understand. I gotta go home.”
Me: “Oh no. Not again. This time, I go.”
So — Ellsberg proves the Constitution, Public and Government is infected with cancerous Mafia. Here, then, is a summary of Dickie’s Flag, Motherhood, and Apple Pie. So what else is new? Cancer. And what happens to cancer? It eats its human lunch, then murders the host, and itself. Anti-matter. Unless a doctor gets to it first. A doctor cuts it out — and incinerates it —
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(no jail, no bail, no election to presidency). Either way, cancer is dead. Even if the doctor — on a whim, Like Truman’s — or something — gets impatient and incinerates the patient.
From the medical journal: “One of the cures for any murdering Mafia monster is deballing or detitting — one clean meat ax chop — followed, after a 22-hour period of consultation — by incineration. This renders the patient peaceful, accommodating and humble — as our new staff director — Christ — says all should be. He seems to feel that we emerge — all of us — virgin birth or otherwise — Persian Pa — whatever — attached by the belly button — a life line. The attachment snaps, and we’re on our own — each created around that button by some supreme source. Cancer — all of it — must crawl back through that rotting belly button. Peristalsis in reverse — a tortured 22-hour Mary Jo Bitter Burp. During the latter hours, our patients will wish to push a nuclear button to bring on the quick relief of stockpiled overkill, amassed by murderous MMORDIS over these infamous years to produce Fatima #3 — a vision promoted by the Vatican, perverted by its handmaiden — the Mafia, and today pursued jointly in Mary Jo dead-fucking frenzy — Brazil, Vietnam, Greece, Miami, every-Montini-where. In those hours, Fatima #3 will be welcome — and none able to push the button. Cancer will think of Mary Jo and Tanya, and dead-fucking, and gang bangs on our staff director — and join in singing the Mafia Chorus: “Chappaquiddick, My Chappaquiddick, I Gotta Go Home.” We intern meat ax doctors differ somewhat. We believe that if the patient won’t cooperate in the cutting out of the infectious cancer, the thing to do is to give ‘said patient’ (we are still quoting from the new AMA Medical Journal) “a sedative — such as a meat ax chop on the belly button. This is called acupuncture. The patient is then cooperative and you can take an eternity to sort out the shit for hanging. Medical precedence for this — with 100% human approval — comes from a 2000 year old mineral and a 2000 year old art — both in China — and a 2000 year old pro — the first doctor — who leaped off the cross recently at Chappaquiddick and has joined our staff. He is skinny and has a pained look because of a long missing liver — eaten, as was Mary Jo’s — but there is a dedicated look about him. Savage, some say, as he strides up with that bloody fucking meat ax. Savage, we feel, because he also glares at us — the heroes — the medical profession — who daily kill cancer with 100% human approval. He was seen studying the files of the Teddy Kennedy-Mary Jo doctors at Edgartown — coroners and morticians who patched her broken nose — and fucked her madly on the mortuary slab — along with Mankiewics, Hart, Nader, and Teddy McGovern,
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Dickie, John, Cushing, Montini — Joanie, Rosie, and mothers — all of them — including Mother Kopechne — Massachusetts hierarchy from all the Vatican Mafia, Government Mafia, Press Mafia, Legal Mafia, Mafia-Mafia ranks — whatever — and the entire drooling public of the U. S. of Mafia — the necrophiliac nation of which Ellsberg speaks. He studies Doc Duke, Connally’s Afghan mountain top two bullet hole patcher from Dallas and the entire staff at Parkland Hospital who patched up JFK. Doctors — Eugenie Niarchos. Doctors — Joan Tunney. Psychiatrists — Bremer, Sirhan. Doctors who quickly retired J. Edgar Hoover — at a critical moment — quietly, very quietly. He passed out the file of the Dickie murder of Verne D. Roberts to another meat ax doctor — a buddy of his, Bruce P. Roberts — along with another meat ax.
And then he sits there somberly honing his ax — and then he walks into the operating room and stares around at us and we are never really sure.
I tell ya what. I, the author of this AMA Medical Journal, resign. As with Teddy, Johnson, Mitchell, Connally — my wife fears for me. As Dickie says, “Fuck America. My family comes first. I shall retire and crawl up her ass. I’m too busy. I wanna go home.”
- Alioto — Humphrey — Dickie. Purchased by Onassis’ “Hughes,” Maheu, Rebozo, Jake the Barber, Tony Boyle. Warned by murders of Martin Luther King, Bobby Kennedy. Morality of Mafia merger — Onassis and Jackie Kennedy — sanction of Mafia Montini.
- Rerun. Different “fronts.” Teddy McGovern — Dickie — Connally. Purchase by Onassis’”Hughes,” ITT, Kimelman. Warned by murders — so far — “Peking” Verne D. Roberts, “Files” J. Mafia Hoover, “Partial” George Wallace. Morality of “I quit” Montini, “I quit” Mitchell, “I quit” Kennedy, “I quit” Connally, massive grave-fuck on Mary Jo, gang bang on Christ. Results?…
(Publishes Jones: “Mafia Miami convention a shriek — in tribute to the hero of Chappaquiddick — Teddy McGovern.”)
Says ‘Jesus Christ’ Shirley MacLaine’s Sinatra, “Fuck Congress. So I fronted for Luciano, and I now front for Teddy’s Patriarcha and Lansky and Onassis in Mafia Miami Convention Hotels and Onassis’ “Hughes” Vegas Mafia joints. I own Congress and I expect an apology. I also own Dickie, Agnew, and Reagan — my very close friends.” Congress: “We do indeed apologize, Mr. Aristotle Sinatra, Sir.” Says Alioto: “Declare me pure, your honor, you fucking Mafia Federal Judge.” His Honor: “You’re pure! You’re pure! You’re pure!..” as he wheels, flailing away in frenzy toward Pennsylvania. And while I waited in Garry’s office — a 26 minute delay — Mafia CIA Director Jerome Rubin was telling Garry (on July 11th — 2nd day of the Demo Mafia Convention): “We know you are a Communist, your Gray Eminence, Garry. Recently, one of Noel Gayler’s
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National Security Council Ellsberg-Tisserant type traitors sneaked out the fact that Onassis-Montini Pentagon has had the whole world tapped — including the KGB — as a prelude to Fatima #3. We know of a lot of the stuff you’ve shipped out — but we don’t know how that bastard out there in the waiting room does it. Now, we let up on the genocide of the Black Panther Party and don’t pull any Hampton-and-Clark’s, since you agreed to direct your people to work with us ‘within our Mafia System.’ We let you get Angela Davis off, and a bunch of other Panthers. Today, right today, if you don’t knock it off — if you cooperate any further with that bastard out there — if you aid him in any way — we will ‘accidentally’ misfire a Vandenburg missile on San Francisco and eradicate every Black Panther, radical, dissident in the Bay Area. You will notice, all of our people are out of town — The Demo Convention in Miami. Moscone and Moretti are vacationing in the Bahamas. Anybody we care about is out of town. I am the last one. I can ground every plane — except the one waiting for me — and issue that misfire order. Do you understand me, Garry?” “I understand. But if you do that you would include him out there, with a meat ax on his shoulder, with which to chop the pin out of the grenade he’s got up your ass and mine. Wouldn’t that be suicide?” Rubin: “Possibly. But this is the whole ball of wax. We stop him now — any way we can — or we all go anyhow. You can count on what I tell you — even if we need to pull Fatima #3 — now — first strike — to back it up. You’re just a few minutes away from dead. For sure. We don’t know, and you don’t know, what his time schedule is. How much is time worth? How much would you pay for an extra minute?” Garry agreed with a nod. And Garry called me in and delivered a Mafia message: “The hierarchy will squash anything that steps on its toes. You are dead. I know about the Hampton and Clark murders. I was there. I can’t get it into any Mafia court. I know about Mary Jo. I don’t want to know anymore. I don’t want to know anything. Go away please. I’m too busy. I don’t understand. I gotta go home.”
And this is how it is that Communist Garry — by a nod of his head — saved the necrophiliac heads of the Mary Jo dead-fucking Mafia citizens of Alioto’s Mafia San Francisco — for a while — on July 11, 1972 — at 3:26 p.m.
Alioto, of course, was in Miami. J. Mafia Hoover was long ago dead — via American Apple Pie.
I watched the Miami Mary Jo mass dead-fuck on TV. I watched necrophiliac San Francisco on the streets. The big sack — on the bar — “For God’s Sake — get it out of here!” At 10:00 p.m. when I first appeared with the big sack, at a Jones-Leavenworth isolated bus stop, a scattered group of tough ones jiggled every time I did. And I thought back to the Nader letter — and his Onassis bribe — and the Conga line. Join me for the boogaloo — gang bang on Christ — Aug. 21, 1972 — Mafia Miami.
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Six options, I had, four years ago: 1) Ask the cancer to cure itself — a total waste of time. 2) Burn all bridges — kill or cure. 3) Film of the total crumbling of the moral fiber of the U.S. of Mafia into cancer. And these three have been done. 4, 5, and 6, coming up, not necessarily in that order, or separately. I am very tired — and I don’t give a shit. It is the view of one man — one whim — like Truman’s, only one. Why worry about one man? Mafia cancer has succeeded in murder — Christ, Mary Jo, Nations — 2000 years of it. Change it around? Reverse the murder? Hang them here or hang them there? Forget it. No one man could do this. Could he?
Informed areas won’t rise to U.S. of Mafia prods. Withdraw from Egypt. Pronounce peaceful ideology. Shun war. Welcome trade. Accept visitors. And the Mafia greedily rushes around the world to purchase with the motto “Why kill ‘em if we can buy ‘em?” (Waiting. Watching the necrophiliac U.S. of Mafia Cancer eat its diseased self. A pre-committed, non-changeable course. And it is why the future scripts, which they have seen, are so accurate — and why those out now will be too. Why should they resist. One man is doing it all. A man who worked with minerals until Alioto clobbered his car. But you wouldn’t understand that — just as those at Hiroshima couldn’t comprehend — a tick away from that. Missiles you do understand — now — and so…
Says Ellsberg: “In 1961, just after Kennedy got in, I was hired by the National Security Council to draw up a plan for worldwide nuclear war.” (Fatima #3) “I had, previously, since Apalachin,” (Onassis’ 1957 Mafia capture of the Election Process, proven in the 1958 Congress — 1957, that vintage year of Dickie’s Onassis bribe — ‘Fuck America. My family comes first.’), “been drawing up a plan for the Pacific area only,” (including the Montini gate to Fatima #3 — Vietnam). “The Pentagon” (Onassis’ Mafia, as he set one up in Greece later — and the ‘shotgun’ he snatched from JFK when he murdered him and snatched his snatch, Jackie), “kept the existence of the plan from all outsiders, including Congress, Executive, and Judicial,” (and, of course, you, the corpse in the bit, that breeds the Mafia cancer that kills you).
Fellwock quit the National Security Agency, (which was Noel Gayler’s baby — breaking codes and stuff before Dickie named him Commander in Chief of all Pacific Forces to carry out that nuclear plan — Fatima #3) “and released the documents to Garry, and then the public, over screams of the CIA murderer Helms — via Ramparts, “of the United States” (of Mafia-Fatima #3) “and its global mission, because the most dangerous threat to me and my family, and world peace itself, is the American Military,” (Onassis’ Pentagon and the President Kennedy-Cardinal Spellman ‘Holy Crusade’ Vietnam gate to Fatima #3). “The build up of America’s vast military machine and global empire is based on a lie: that there is an overwhelming military threat to the United States.” (This was the Onassis-Joseph P. Kennedy-J. Mafia Hoover ding-ding for 40 years —
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since 1932, when Onassis heroin came in with Joseph P. Kennedy’s booze from Churchill, sponsored by Roosevelt and Rosensteil, who set up the Seagram Foundation for J. Mafia Hoover — see Mustapha’s Onassis Diary — while Kennedy and Onassis raped everything in sight — from the SEC and Maritime Commission to World War II, which killed Tanya. “There is clearly one superior offensive nation,” (the U.S. of Mafia), “and one inferior defensive nation. Russia.” “NSA’s success in snooping is kept secret in order to persuade the American people of the need for huge military spending.” (This is only part of the 41% Mafia take from the Gross National Product — and exactly the amount you pay in taxes. The largest corporations, ITT included, paid no taxes in the last seven years.)
The key words above are “Onassis Mafia Pentagon,” “global nuclear war,” and “secret from all outsiders.” Onassis and the Pentagon and CIA and affiliates, murder around the globe. The CIA assassinates singles and countries and found Fatima #3 suitable for the world. Montini agrees. He, you see, is God, and would share the throne.
And it is why it is that I can pull a missile down at any site, at any time. There are other ways. And this Mafia CIA doesn’t care how many are in town or out of town. That, of course, would be Fatima #3. All I did was sit in Garry’s outer office. You see, I wasn’t even near a nuclear button. I can do this dead or alive. And I don’t count on that. I, like Onassis on Bobby at L.A. or JFK at Dallas, have backups that are certain. It is why just a nod of the head, in the right direction — agreement by Garry with CIA Rubin — kept a Vandenberg “mistaken” nuclear obliteration away from San Francisco — on the second day of the Mafia Miami Demo dead-fuck on Mary Jo, July 11, 1972 at 3:26 p.m., with some of value to the Mafia — such as “Files” Alioto, Moscone and Moretti — out of town. That “mistake” missile is on 24-hour alert. And Betty Waterhouse’s husband’s Sarnoff Dew-line defense group would not defend against that one, would they? It was barely aborted in the first week of October, 1971 — and so I notified those CIA Neilson-Green secretaries of that very threat at the time of my “Peking” talks with those CIA Mafia. At 2:00 a.m. that night, at the Mark Bar, a CIA shit said “That was the smartest thing you ever did.” In complete frustrated disgust. (Damn, Damn, Damn.) It is why Nader (to whom Mary Jo was running when murdered) didn’t show in San Francisco that weekend — for his assassination — and yours. Instead, Kay Pachtner handed the Consumer’s Federation 3rd Party to the Mafia (they were there — and under the same sentence I was, had Nader appeared. As Jim Lindberg told me, “We murder whenever we think it’s necessary — and whoever — and however many we please.”). La Follette glared. Shivering Miller cowered, Pat Wyman joined me for lunch and Sylvia Siegal said “Nader is a shit — hiding in a phone booth in Washington.” And hanging over all of us — Maf and non-Maf — was a “mistaken” missile. It was a fun affair. Because, you see, two weeks earlier, some friends of mine exposed Harry Yee — and $6 billion of Onassis’ Laotian opium-heroin in S.F.
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And on the morning of Nader’s cancellation, 1000 FBI descended of S.F.. Ostensible purpose: to pick up a few winos — actual purpose: to seal the lid up tight on any loose ends of that Henry Yee opium-heroin bit (dozens of Chinatown murders recently over this) — and also to cart the crop out of town — since, if Nader screwed up his guts and did appear, and they had to lob one in, they were not going to atomize $6 billion worth of skag. You see, the Mafia has problems too. It’s not all sweetness and light. Strangelove Kissinger had a problem too. He had to get to Peking, because of my “Peking” talks with CIA Neilson-Green, and yet cover the Harry Yee Taiwan connection because of the upcoming U.N. vote on expelling dope-pushing Chiang and admitting China. He went to Peking, was there when,and that in itself helped vote Taiwan out and China in. (1000 FBI or 100 — I don’t remember — but the Police Chief said, “Jesus Christ. It’s an invasion. I’ve never seen this before. What the hell is going on?” (Had Nader appeared, he would have joined us on a little trip.) At lunch, Pat Wyman said to me, “You must be hungry,” and I told her the truth. “Yes. I’ve had a busy week.” A nice warm atomic flash would have been a relief.
24-hour “mistake” missile alert — for, you see, this is election year 1972. As in 1968 (murders like King and Bobby), 1969 (murders like Mary Jo and Hampton-Clark), 1970 (murders like Eugenie Niarchos, Joan Tunney’s hubby, Yablonski family, Newsom’s nieces), 1971 (murders like Howard Hughes) — there must be warning murders — such as “Peking” Verne D. Roberts, my father — and that was his citation from Jackie, “Files” J. Mafia Hoover, and “Partial” Wallace…and… there are more on the way. I guarantee you. Said Mitchell — the Attorney General of the U.S. of Mafia — just before he crawled up Martha’s ass in the bathroom — from which she just called yesterday, again, and said: “I’m still a prisoner. I have a long story to tell.” — said mighty Mitchell, sadly: “The lives of millions are at stake — probably all of us.” And he was referring to another Manhattan Project — feverishly in Brookhaven, Swiss-French border, and Kiev: a search for a mineral.
What do you suppose would happen if a “mistake” missile in some country — ignored by its own defense radar — searched itself right down the throat of a mineral pipe of that stuff? Or assorted back-ups of such a thing? What about mile-high smart bomb Catch 22-Teddy McGovern lobbing one in by mistake — or some berserk American Pilot doing it deliberately? Maybe he imagines he’s a doctor or something, and likes to experiment with hew cancer cures. Some Mafia CIA slob told me, “Man, you’re booby trapped both ways from the asshole.” What happens, then, if I burp?
I told the truth in that bar — with the big sack — about creeping crud that creates a 22-hour belly-button rot. And this is why, one week after I was standing at a lonely Jones-Sutter bus stop (it wasn’t Jones and Leavenworth, as I said before —
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they’re parallel — it was Jones and Sutter), I was standing there again at 10:00 p.m. with another armful of papers. The dead-fucking of Mary Jo at Miami was just over. Previous week, the corner was jammed with tough ones — jiggling every time I did — remember? This time there wasn’t a soul in sight. Not a bus, a cab, no Alioto whores. Fog rolling in. Nobody to even stare at it. Not even cars going by. I hadn’t seen Betty Waterhouse (Levitus) since the night before my father’s murder. At the hospital that night, he told me and my mother that something was going to happen to me, sometime between 9:00 p.m. and 9:00 a.m. When I left the hospital I went to Al Strom’s and Jim Lindberg asked me if I knew what was going on tonight and I said “yes,” and he left. (His partner, Cliff Jones, was the one who was listening to my chat with one-tooth Kitty Lowry — Howard Hughes’ half-aunt, or something — Betty Waterhouse’s friend — long ago — back in here somewhere). I was angry. I went to Betty Waterhouse’s place and told her I was going to hang her. I hadn’t seen her since. Four months. And so it was completely natural that on that empty corner — totally empty — that she should appear, smiling and friendly, “Imagine seeing you here. There are no busses coming. Come up to my place and I will show you checks that Richard Nixon signs personally and sends to me and citations about my husband’s murder — who was murdered just after your father was murdered — also signed personally — and we will talk about my dead husband’s top security work in Kiev — and about that rat poison that leaves no trace, and his work on Sarnoff’s Dew-Line, and your experiments on minerals and Kitty Lowry and Howard Hughes, and the next president, and I have some beer — which I know that you drink — and you can catch a later bus. There won’t be any for a while.”
I was beginning to believe that. And I didn’t have cab fare. And there weren’t any cabs. In the papers in my arms were things relative to Dickie’s nervous signature — concerning Howard Hughes. And everything else she was talking about. This woman was a fund of information, who loves the Mafia as an institution — and the military as a murdering instrument — and hates me with a venom that will never quit. And so I said, “I don’t like you. You are in books, on tape and on film — on display, or poised to be, before two thirds of the world. I will hang you.” And she said, “Oh well, what’s the difference? We’ll walk. Save money.” (Money. She says she’s heiress to $400 million — Price-Waterhouse stuff. Checks from President Chappaquiddick Dickie. Signed personally — in a shaky hand. And, once, the idea was to use that $400 million — all of it — to give a gigantic abortion to Body Count MacNamara — who, in 1937, aborted her and left her bleeding — throwing money in her face and raging “Damn you — you made me sell my car.”) We walked, and the rest of the chat is back in here somewhere.
A news item: Sam Krevitt is searching the world for his daughter’s murderer.
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In San Francisco, she was [Rest of line unreadable ] the tenants below brought help, but she died anyway. Krevitt can’t rest until the killer of Mary Jane is found. He still burns with the furious agony that led him to cry out the day after her death. “What kind of a society is it that makes a place for people like this…this miserable guy who did this.” Krevitt says he stares at the drawing of the suspect and repeats the quotation: “ ‘If I created man I’d be ashamed to call myself God.’ This person must live with something worse than death,” he said of the killer. “How can he escape the thought, the memory of that brutal bludgeoning and leaving her to die?”
He sounds different from Pa Kopechne, somehow. And an entire necrophiliac nation that dead-fucks on Mary Jo’s grave — in frenzied unison — “Miami to the fruited plains and Purple mountain majesties” and elects Teddy to the Presidency, with a label, “Most Courageous Of All Men” — after witnessing Teddy bludgeon Mary Jo and leave her to die, bleeding through a busted nose — a 2-hour and 13-minute terror death — while Teddy phoned Onassis for cover and the Presidency of the U.S. of Mafia. “I’d be ashamed to call myself God — if I created this,” quotes Krevitt. “I am God,” quotes Montini, as he fucks toward Mecca. And “Most courageous and brave free men everywhere” crawl up the protective assholes of American Mafia Motherhood, waving the Mafia heroin flag in the true National Mafia Interest.
Option 3. Done. Seeded and growing. Early residue fallout. Like a snake-struck running rabbit there is one thing the snake knows. That running rabbit will drop dead. When I mentioned to Mack the certainty of a 22-hour mineral goose up his ass while he combed missiles out of his ass, he suddenly softened. “Would it help if you talked to Mitchell?” and that is odd. How can you talk to an Attorney General who is secreted up his wife’s ass, in danger of delivery by fart, while she farts over the phone from her other end (“I have a long story to tell.”)? — the story you just read. Or his assistant, Wilson, who is raiding through Texas like Quatrell, holing up occasionally at the Pedernales with his capodonico“Dallas Bullet” Connally and “Hang Separately” Johnson?
Meanwhile, back at the Washington Ranch — Teddy’s Patriarcha, Miami’s Rizzo, and Luciano’s Sinatra, shit on Congress in unison. “Fuck you punks, whom we own. Our friends Dickie and Agnew and Reagan will stay in our hotel — the Fontainbleu — during the gang bang on Christ in Miami on August 21st. Knock off this shit — now!” And Congress, in unison, wheeling toward Pennsylvania, with a Montini two-handed stroke: “You’re Pure! You’re Pure! You’re Pure! You’re Pure! …”
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[Top line of text unreadable ]
log cabin — Victorville Catch 22 Teddy McGovern ponders Meany’s decision to “sit this one out.” And the wrath of God that spits into the yardbird’s face in the hot desert sun spit again. “Can a Mafia Union Leader deliver his union? Can a Mafia Mayor deliver his city? Can a Mafia Priest deliver his parish? Can Martha deliver John? Would a fart dislodge him?” This to the press. And he himself, Teddy McGovern asks, “How can Onassis-Chappaquiddick-Montini Teddy Kennedy amplify the Miami dead fuck on Mary Jo, which he just conducted — in order to overcome the advantages of Onassis-Hughes-Chappaquiddick Dickie’s proposed campaign of a gang bang on Christ in Mafia Miami, August 21, 1972? What kind of a super-gala can we come up with? Release the ‘mistake’ missile on the snake that bit us in San Francisco? Release them all — Fatima #3?”
Stone face from South Dakota’s Rushmore. Stone face in the oval office. Stone face in Rome. All hands busy — toward Mary Jo’s grave. Splattering the face of Christ.
Says the law: “Anyone who breeds cancer, feeds the 41% Mafia take, murders Mary Jo and dead fucks on her grave, and Tanya’s, and gang bangs on Christ — is guilty of every crime known to humanity and Christianity — by its own constitution and commandments. That one is cancer — is Mafia — is dead. The running rabbit has been snake-bitten and is dead.” Option 4 is under way. It has to do with the eating of liver. Which empty streets of which dead city will this “peace march” charge bravely down, fucking in frenzy with both hands toward the cross of Christ and the grave of Mary Jo Kopechne?
Have a happy day. See ya later.
Page Two Hundred Seventy Eight
July 21, 1972
They were a group of young, dedicated looking anti-war marchers. Some were veterans on the anti-war campaigns. I knew a few by sight. All are fanatic McGovern people. All are fanatic Ellsberg fans. Angela Davis fans. And Teddy Kennedy fans.
Grouping for a bus in S.F. to take them to a gigantic anti-war rally in L.A. — a three day affair. I asked them their names, and then I asked them, “Do you want to get Ellsberg out of jail?” Answer: “You’d better believe it. That’s why we’re going. He’s the main speaker. We hope for a half million turn out at U.C.L.A.” Dedicated. So again I asked, “Do you wanna end this Goddamn war?” Answer: “You’d better believe it! That’s the other reason we’re going.” Me: “Those are your only two reasons for going? There are no others? You would let nothing stand in the way of those two objectives? Nothing?” Answer: “You’d better believe it!”
Me: “I was going. But I can’t go. I want Ellsberg’s attorneys to have this sack full of papers. I want them to represent me. The papers will get Ellsberg out of jail and end this war. Brezhnev has read them. Chow has read them. Dickie has read them. Pope Paul has read them. And so have many more. Garry used them to get Angela Davis free and all the Black Panthers out of jams recently. Teddy Kennedy used them to get Teddy McGovern nominated. Dickie used them to get elected the last time out. And to invade Cambodia. And a few other things. Nader used them to win his GM suit. They named Mitchell to the Attorney General position. Recently, because of them, Mitchell quit, to help Dickie privately. And then he quit that job and crawled up his wife’s ass. Martha, who hasn’t been able to shit — for fear of flushing Jawn down the drain, screams over the phone, “I’m still a political prisoner. I have a long story to tell.” This is that story. I want you to give these papers to Ellsberg in order that he may give them to his attorneys, for me. Will you?”
“You’d better believe it!” Mitchell, it seems, was the one who jailed Ellsberg.
As I walked away, I heard the leader say, “Now, this is a sack — and we’re all couriers to Ellsberg’s attorneys. You all heard. For our own safety — and that of our hero, Ellsberg, and his attorneys, we must examine this sack for bombs — as they do on boarding airplanes and other moving vehicles, and for heroin, or other illegal contraband. I will take this first page here and scrutinize everything that’s on it and then pass it to the next one, who will do the same, and then I will do the same with the second page, and so on — until all of us who ride on this bus are satisfied that there is nothing in that sack which would constitute a hazard — such as a potential hijacking of this vehicle, while on our courier mission to Ellsberg’s attorneys.”
Someone said, “You’d better believe it! Hurry up with page five…”
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And so it is that I have presented L.A. with a shit pit. Hanging over L.A. this weekend is a Mafia ‘mistake’ missile from Vandenberg. Helms has been notified.
It’s like Martha in the bathroom. Blocked from shitting at one end by John, and farting the “long story” out the other end — also by John, something has to blow. This is still fallout of Option 3. And the future script on this went out some time ago — and identical sacks have been arranged for delivery to the opposition of Ellsberg — Judge, Jury, witnesses, and so forth.
For instance: Ellsberg, the only one who didn’t get a million or a Pulitzer Prize out of the deal, has choices — 115 years in prison, assassination, hanging (two ways — them and me), plus “mistaken” Vandenberg Missile atomization — if he elects to continue the dead-fuck on the grave of Mary Jo. If he lets it all hang out, he’s free. A hero. Bravest of the brave. All out for mankind, justice — all of the things he says he is (under certain conditions — already established by a man with a meat axe on his shoulder).
And the anti-war Peace March couriers and the half a million turnout? Continuation of the massive grave fuck on Mary Jo — in honor of Teddy Kennedy and Teddy McGovern and Dickie — nets them the same choices as Ellsberg, who loves Teddy, and Ellsberg’s attorneys, who love Teddy. If they let it all hang out, they’re free. The bravest of the brave. All out for mankind and justice — all of the things they say they are (subject to certain conditions).
The options from this thing are many — for this weekend. Thelma Golding’s boss is Schulman, National General Corporation. Schulman’s partner is Sinatra (S.S. & R. Enterprises, which holds 200,000 shares of National General). Both are partners of C. Arnholdt Smith — the Maf who owns San Diego, and Alessio, and U.S. Attorney Seward, and Representative Bob Wilson, who owns Dita Beard, who writes memos about ITT, that switch convention sites to the Fontainbleu, which Sinatra and Patriarcha own — which is why Sinatra said “Fuck You” to Congress — and then called Schulman and the following day Schulman and two other directors of National General resigned — to the total amazement of the entire Mafia economic community — except Sinatra and Onassis, of course — and were last seen on a South Pole flight. And that goes back to a day at Tahoe Airport — snowstorm. The only flight out, a Holiday Airlines flight, greedily oversold the thirty seats by fifteen. Fifteen stranded — on a bench, in a blizzard. One was an older lady — a pensioner. Crying. Broke from the slot machines. Another was me. Also broke. Holiday is owned by Golden West. Golden West is owned — illegally — by C. Arnholdt Smith (who owns Thelma Golding — who writes death sympathy cards) and Sinatra, who flies Onassis’ jets. Helms has “mistakes” to waste. What’s San Diego? The gang bang on Christ was moved to Miami.
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“Waste ‘em” — Abrams Acres, My Lai — to retain President Thieu and God Montini — National Mafia Policy — Vietnam. “Waste ‘em” — Mary Jo, my father, Christ, Yablonskis, Hampton and Clark, Newsom’s nieces, Hoover, Tunney’s hubby, Eugenie Niarchos, Hughes, fringes — Dickie and God Onassis-Teddy. “Suck ‘em in” — Washington, Rome, Skorpios — “a mistake.”
FDR, Joseph P., and Onassis’ Fatima #1 suck-in at Warsaw and Pearl Harbor. It’s the same history. Today, in Vietnam, as with Diem, it is, say the Buddhists. “We are 85% of the population. We will not kill. Yet 85% of the dead are ours. We have no power, no money. We have death. Conscripted Thieu decree — issued from Washington, Rome, Skorpios.”
Take the L.A. dilemma — this weekend — being filmed. Garry’s Black Panther Bobby Seale — Hoffa’s Teamster Gibbons — directing the Anti-war Peace March, Free Ellsberg group in the mass Mary Jo dead-fuck election of Teddy McGovern. Lots of erratics there — Ellsberg and the radical of Berkeley and S.F. Even Reagan, just returned from Rome. Helms thinks “Why not? The ‘mistake.’ Fatima #3.” Cedar statue of Fatima — Parish of Mafia Marcello, owner of Louisiana — sheds tears. Says Father Brealt: “The weeping means that the Blessed Mother insists that the faithful follow the message of Fatima.” Yes. Indeed. I have extracted 57% water — H20 — from an opal. 17% of sapphire juice from the 62-carat heart shaped sapphire now up President Patty’s ass.? That juice is something else. A real tear jerker. From ruby, it’s red — the color of blood.
“72 election gang bang canceled” (There is a memo about this from Rand — Ellsberg’s employers — who hide the file, “Project Star,” about JFK at Dallas, in Agnew’s office). Helms has a sudden reason — on his desk — to wrack up a batch of John-Marthas, and Naders, there in D.C. — this weekend — and flip all the rest on that other fucking half — a “mistake” right on Dickie’s dick — low, under unconcerned radar — which would cancel Catch 22 Teddy McGovern, cancel elections, and fulfill Fatima #3. And in Rome, this weekend, there is a sudden urgency to cut Montini out — “Why should he share the throne — murder at the transmission lines, the Italian Parliament, Recife” — bring Fatima #3 full circle. “It is Christ’s birthday, isn’t it?” No, that was April, 6 BC) “Fuck it. That solves Montini — Election ‘72 — Fatima #3 — Chappaquiddick Teddy. The whole shit. Why fuck around?”
Snake bitten Dickie — the running rabbit — no place to run, like Mitchell — 62-carats blocking Patty’s ass. Montini can’t crawl up his mommy — she’s Jewish. Montini — for once — flailing away with the truth — “Jesus Christ! Here I come!”
Helms has a vital reason — on his desk — to “mistake” Skorpios — this weekend. Clean sweep. As a doctor. Cure Boss Onassis’ phobia — “Fear of waking up to find everything gone.”
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This is the reasoning of one — CIA Helms — as he sits painfully on the grenade tamped up his ass — upon whom pressure is building — CIA heroin exposure, CIA-ITT murder exposure, CIA Fatima #3 Global Mission. As with the pressure on J. Edgar Hoover — murder occurred. J. Mafia Hoover. Helms prefers another solution: “Waste ‘em.” You.
This part of Option 3 — this glorious American Summer week-end, in the year of our Lord, 1972. A type of purgatory — a Mafia week-end between the dead-fuck of Mary Jo and the gang bang on Christ.
Option 4 has been cast upon the waters. Another type of reasoning. Whatever’s right. Equal justice for all. 2 hours and 13 minutes of torture for dead-fucked, busted snorkel Mary Jo. 8 hours of liver eating of Christ. Three and one-half years for my father — plus apple pie. This averages out to about 22 hours — per dead fucking, presidential and private, capita — as cancer — Mafia-MMORDIS computes murder. And that’s the law.
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July 25, 1972
Business as usual. This morning a Mafia meet in the White House to divvy up loot. Dickie meets with Mayor Alioto from McGucken’s archdiocese, Mayor Daley from the Chicago Cardinal’s diocese and Mayor Moon Landreau from the New Orleans Diocese of Marcello’s parish. This evening, loot in hand, Mayor Alioto rushes back to San Francisco to appear at a testimonial in Papal Knight, Shriner, Mafia Swig’s Fairmont — sponsored by Archbishop McGucken, S.F. Diocese, and Bishop Hurley, Santa Rosa Diocese — in honor of Mafia Alioto’s successful escape from the murders of 1) the Sam Goldwyn Judge, 2) the “Mafia Alioto Web” barbecues of Newsom’s nieces, Pelosi’s daughters, and a Japanese nurse, 3) Vancouver Judged, and 4) J. Mafia Hoover (whose “broad and shotgun” he appropriated — Mafia style — both being J. Mafia’s files) — for which he earned the badge of “Pure” from Dickie’s federal judge, who paid $34,724 for his job — less than Fraiman or the other three N.Y. Supreme Court Justices paid for theirs — admitted it — and retired on a pension.
Me? Same old thing. After dispatching the message to Ellsberg’s attorneys, I Xeroxed more stuff and sat down to wait. Jim Lindberg came in — sat down next to me — stared sourly and left — no words. At Jim’s (another Jim) someone sat down and said, “All right, tell me what you know,” and I did, and as I was deep into the shit an hour later he insisted on shaking hands and jumped up and ran away. Next night, I believe, at Jim’s, the entire U.S. Attorney’s office, secretaries, and marshals, sat around staring with sour looks. So I left and went up to Frank’s and was well into the huge cash prices out for any Mafia ears — a la Dr. Pepper — for the ears of anyone dead-fucking on Mary Jo’s grave, and Frank said, “Get out of here and don’t come back.” So I went back to Jim’s and said I had just put seven of his customers on the hanging list and he said, “Get out of here and don’t come back.” So the next night I was back. I was thinking of what I already knew about that L.A. anti-war Peace March 3-day meet. It was Sunday night and the buses were due back at about that time. Meet of the Year? Half a million? One thousand showed up. Two shifts — 500 reading things — 500 listening to Garry’s Bobby Seale and Hoffa’s Gibbons press for the endorsement of Teddy McGovern — an endorsement previously 100% assured by all 1,000 in attendance. The result — as with Meany — the group voted to endorse no candidate. Ellsberg’s speech? Scratched. News coverage? Total blackout — except for one agonized scream from Ellsberg’s attorneys. “Historic! Unprecedented! Since Friday,” (receipt of papers), “the Justice Department and all government units have placed total surveillance, total clamp on the defense attorneys. Secret reports only to Federal Judge Mafia Byrne, and he is sworn to secrecy.”
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I was thinking of one of that L.A. groups members — Jane Fonda — and her statement from Paris that day: “President Nixon is the greatest traitor known to mankind. And there are more.” And of Pedernales Johnson having another heart attack — that day. Johnson, you see, has been subpoenaed to appear at Ellsberg’s trial. And then two came in from the bus and sat down across the room. I had never seen them before, but one shouted to me, “Beautiful, Baby! Send that man two drinks. I don’t care if I die right now, tomorrow, or when. That’s better than this prison.” So I look away and ignore all this — and then he’s behind me at the jukebox. I’m the only one there — and he says “This song is for you, baby — S2 — ‘American Pie.’ “ (The words are very simple: “bye-bye Miss American pie — for this will be the day that I die.”) So I ignore some more — and there they are — both of them — with a hand stretched out. “We gotta go, but we gotta shake your hand, sir.” So I did, and I added, “You are gentlemen and scholars, I can tell. You must read a lot.” “Every word, baby. All the way.” And they left, and two young plain-clothes cops sat down near me and Jim asked, “What was that all about?” So I told him (and Alioto cops listen), “Freddie De Mattei is 97 years old. Sells papers. In his youth, as the best around — he was never knocked off his feet in the ring. He beat Abe Atel and Young Corbett — and the rest. He told me he followed a pattern — belly first, until they covered, right eye next, until it was gone, left eye the same — and then he’d call the referee over and have them hauled away — because, as a sportsman, he did not want to hurt them. ‘But, Bobby, if it could be now, or if it were then — Mafia Alioto or any of the cancer crud — I would have chopped and stomped and ground the shit into the canvas — and then pulled a ring post and killed the referee, and the audience, for allowing such a profanity to appear and infect in a public place.’ And yesterday I saw Freddie, because he had been missing for several days — sick, as it turned out — and he said his daughter had died and he had sent her out to be buried at Cypress Lawn with my father (her name, Irene O’Leary), and put a thou out for his own casket and 1050 for a place in Cypress Lawn — and he had passed out — and might have died — if it hadn’t been for two black men who weren’t worried and propped him up and fed him peaches until he was back on his feet again. And I said that I knew his son was Superior Court Judge De Mattei — and why didn’t he call him — busy these days (yes) — and that Judge De Mattei had just reversed a lower court decision finding dentist Genovese, of South San Francisco, guilty of murder of a girl, into
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‘leaving the scene of an accident,’ such as Teddy at Chappaquiddick, and was on his way up in the world. And then, Freddie said, ‘I’m getting sick again. I’m going home so I can be back selling papers Monday. You come by.’ Well, Jim, the key words here are ‘dentist Genovese, South San Francisco.’ Son of Vito Genovese, who fed German information through Luciano to Alioto in Capo Roosevelt’s Justice and made a hero out of him — who, with Luciano, welcomed American Generals to Sicily (a fight-free Mafia gift) and entire Catch 22 squadrons such as those of Teddy McGovern — and then arranged the details of the Apalachin Mafia sweep of the U.S. of Mafia Election Process — for Onassis — which produced many things.”
I rambled on for awhile — about the Nixon Mafia now grabbing for the Mafia loot (campaign funds) of Dannie Schwartz — Sinatra’s National General partner — and Schwartz’s National General superior, Kline. But the key word was Genovese — and one of Alioto’s cops muttered, “You’d better be big” — and they got up and left.
Next day at a bus stop — isolated district, near mother’s, I see an uptown group — Dale (Broken arm — Mafia heroin Norma — my comparison, “Pope Addonizio — Pope Alioto — Pope Montini” — drink in the face — “You better be big” — back in here somewhere), Bob Saxon (last seen uptown, reading Genovese reports over my shoulder and wrestling with 62-carat Elizabeth Dale, ITT) — and another one, leaving Bob Kusick’s place (Gun in my face — Grant’s tomb). I know Dale works for what’s-his-name who carries cash to Ireland for IRA guns. So? They pass and get into an untagged car at a fire plug and go away. I go downtown and Xerox in the R[Unreadable ] building, financial district, Montgomery Street — replacement copies, documents on Alioto’s Mafia Police and Bremer’s Greek hypnotic friends across Lake Michigan). Outside I stop at a magazine rack. Three of Montini Alioto’s finest — cherubic Montini faces — full blue and big guns — “Freeze. Spread Eagle. Identification. Rush hour. Thousands staring at this trapped criminal — me (Also being filmed. 60-second bit). One goes into the magazine place to phone — with my ID The other two hold this trapped criminal at bay. For about fifteen minutes — for the entertainment of thousands of Montgomery Street Mary Jo dead-fucking commuters. Back comes O’Leary, with the Mafia message: You can go now. You’re lucky. Here, with all these store-front lawyers ready to jump us for brutality — we are polite. Now, on your way — by bus — out to your isolated district.” I transferred — way out — 10th and Clement — isolated corner. Squad car in front of the bus, behind it, on the other three corners, and others circling the corner. Finally back to Jim’s, where I told him I would hang the three of them — and to pass the message along.
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And then down to Harry’s to meet George Wallace’s local representative — Keith Green, et al. This was et al, whom I had first met with Keith Green nearly four years ago — just after Alioto clobbered my car (Wallace’s independent vote that year was an aid to Dickie’s election). Said I: “Prop Wallace up somehow — or better still, strap him out somehow, on a portable cross — you know — velvet handholds, whatever will be the most comfortable — and I’ll elect him to the presidency. As you know, my father was murdered for the same reasons as Mary Jo, JFK, Bobby, Martin Luther King, and on and on — and he is a perfect living example. Who do you think racked up your boss?” Et al: “Teddy McGovern’s men.” Me: “Partially correct. It was Teddy Kennedy’s father — Onassis — who, of course, also spawned Teddy McGovern and Dickie. They rousted me today uptown — but they very carefully did not look in this bulky sack,” (By now, a Montini Alioto ear had come in and was bending our way. So as to make it easy, I spoke directly to it) “which contains evidence about the Greek boys of Onassis who ushered Bremer across Lake Michigan to the Psycho Lab for booster shots.” Et al: “Can I see it?” Me: “No. Wallace already has. Tell Keith Green to call me.” Et al: “Okay, I know you. I know you can do it.”
Today — news from Wallace’s Independent Party staff — “We will draft George Wallace to run for President, if we have to prop him up on a cross.”
Tonight — now — I’m going down to Jim’s for a beer. Care to go with me? Say yes, because you are going with me.
Not a cop on the street. Or in Jim’s. Nor Federal Marshals, U.S. Attorney Mafia, nor Mafia-Mafia, nothing. Beer was on the house and Jim was busy. He was reading the arrest of Rudy Tham, member of the Genovese-Alioto-Lanza Mafia branch — Alioto’s Fire Commissioner — and a Teamster Mafia President, along with the arrest of Tham’s partner — Holt, of the Genovese-Dioguardi-Ducks Corallo New York Mafia — and Tham’s partner — Johnny Di Lorenzo, of the Genovese family, currently conducting Mafia murder from prison where he is serving ten years for prior Genovese Mafia social work. I said “Genovese!” and nobody even looked up. So I sat there and tried ESP on the back of Jim’s neck. “Jim, in answer to your question — it’s not the hanging of these three of Alioto’s Mafia cops. It is the hanging of all of them. Fire Commissioners — including, of course, Nunzio Alioto; Police Commissioners — including Alioto’s partner Farrari; all of City Hall; D.A. Ferndon’s group — including the young one who refused to take my Alioto hit-run report four years ago — Goldsmith, son of U.S. Commissioner Goldsmith who release Tham, without bail. It is the hanging of the bartenders who serve them — and the incineration of the bar stools on which they sit. It is, as Freddie De Mattei suggested —
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a ring post to exterminate the entire necrophiliac S.F. audience who allows such a cancer to appear in public and infect. It is the group who sponsored the massive cover-up of the Alioto hit-run on my car that elected Dickie and caused Chappaquiddick — and then joined Montini-Onassis-Teddy and Dickie in the murder of my father and the massive dead-fuck on Mary Jo’s grave. Yes, Jim — Supreme Courts everywhere — quickly, in total fear and unconstitutionality — declared ‘no death penalty for any crime — murder, treason, whatever’ and ‘no authority at all over the Two Mafia Parties who anoint our leaders.’ But, International law supersedes National Law — and legal rulings — regarding war and crimes — representatives of four fifths of the civilized world have ruled this. ‘Hanging for all who dead-fuck on the grave of Mary Jo — and all that lies buried there. Hanging for all who obstruct, interfere, or don’t assist the hangman.’ On crosses, Jim, because of a ruling by a religious character with a speared liver, who jumped off the cross at Chappaquiddick.”
ESP doesn’t work for me. But he did turn around — with dew all over his upper lip, and bought me a beer.
I left. Not a soul in sight. For blocks, no squad cars. Nothing. It was early yet. So I stopped at the Bank Of America on the corner and raised the night depository flap and spoke into Bank Of America tape. “Mrs. Giannini, I saw you on TV, flanking Alioto a month or so ago. It was Sunday, prime time, and McCoy’s Harpers article on the 80% world heroin flowing from Onassis Golden Triangle in Thailand had just hit the street — so Mafia Paley of CBS had arranged two one-half hours — the first with you and Alioto exposing the Mafia to be non-existent and decrying false attacks on Mafia Montini. And the second, showing how it is that all of that heroin comes from Mexico — in detailed film. My question, Mrs. Giannini, since you own the Bank Of America, a mouth of the ‘Hughes’ Mafia Money Funnel, is this: How is the health of Fred Martin, your Public Relations director at World Headquarters — known in Moscow as ‘Heroin Mafia Freddie’? The last time I saw him, he was a lowly Republican Mafia hatchetman at the Chamber of Commerce — owned by Mafia Sweig — along with Greenagel — going over my Alioto hit-run reports that elected Dickie. After Chappaquiddick, you hired him — and Onassis hired Newsom — in Switzerland — ‘permanently.’ It was too bad that Newsom violated that ‘permanently’ and returned to San Francisco in the middle of the ‘Mafia Alioto Web’ trial and thus was able to witness the barbecue of his two nieces, plus their Japanese nurse. Mrs. Giannini, do you charge interest for barbecued girl flesh? Please answer my questions, sweet lady. I live just down the street — where my father was murdered.”
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Still not a human in sight — up and down the streets in four directions — so I went across the street to the drug store and raised the mail flap and spoke to the empty store, and the apartment above — “New York Police — Knapp Commission — totally on the heroin and murder take. Daley’s Chicago cops have their own execution squads to exterminate the cops who don’t shake down enough. Every Mafia diocese in every U.S. of Mafia city is the same. Montini gets his from the confessional. Alioto-Genovese-Lanza-McGucken San Francisco specializes in rat poison that works well in apple pie. My question is — did this store peddle the stuff that went in my father’s apple pie — and J. Mafia Hoover’s? And did the Alioto Mafia cops purchase a supply for the ones that came back from that Ellsberg Anti-War Peace March? I’m checking, you see, because a ‘Hughes’ helicopter gunship followed that bus — with a sack of papers — all the way to L.A. — where massive surveillance took over. Down there, a phone call to an Ellsberg attorney was made by a peace marcher — re. the papers. Copies of this taped call were given to Mafia Judge Byrne — who declared the illegal defense lawyer tap legal and refused to divulge the tapes. But the screams from Ellsberg were so loud, the trial was delayed to go through the formality of holding an Appeal Court Ruling on that unconstitutional, treasonous act. That court will uphold Mafia Byrne — since, of the judges, one is Supreme Court Justice Douglas (Mafia Stardust Vegas bit — and Sacha Volman Caribbean bit for the same Mafia group — formerly Parvin-Dohrmann, now Recrion) and another is James Browning, Sr. — father of James Browning, Jr., the Mafia San Francisco U.S. Attorney who has been sitting on those papers ever since I met him in Greenagel’s office two weeks after Chappaquiddick — and who lately stops in at Jim’s to glare at me. All right — even if Ellsberg’s screams get that treasonous act into the Supreme Court, their ruling will be ‘Constitutional’ — since, you see, they ruled ‘the death penalty illegal for any cause,’ and ‘the two Mafia Parties are the supreme law — over us even’ — since they belong to those Mafia Parties, were appointed by them, are paid by them, and will be assassinated by them for any violation of Omerta. Pedernales Johnson, of course, who has been subpoenaed for that Ellsberg trial, is in a hospital, ‘indefinitely’ — under a doctor’s care — as was Dita Beard, and any Maf anywhere who is about to squawk. My question is — are you participating in the apple pie murders of these kids who have read these papers?
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And then on to Harry’s — where on the previous evening I offered the Presidency to George Wallace, via his local officers — Keith Green et al. It was only midnight, but two things were odd — no humans in sight — and Harry’s was padlocked. That had never happened before. He caters to Alioto’s Mafia cops, and they drink a lot (some of them get pensions for alcoholism). In fact, one of them was pouring booze down et al when I left of the previous evening. So I backed up a bit and addressed myself to the open apartment window above Harry’s padlocked door: “Harry, I know you and et al are in there — and I have a message for et al. Last night we agreed that he’d prop him (Wallace) up on a comfortable cross and I would elect him president. And this morning the news quoted Wallace’s Independent Party staff in Memphis as agreeing: ‘We will draft George Wallace for the presidency if we have to prop him up on a cross.’ And then, several hours later, Conally made a sudden urgent trip to see Wallace, begging newsmen to please keep the sudden trip secret (they didn’t) — and they discussed their mutual assassination bullets — Connally from Dallas Oswald and Wallace from Maryland Bremer. Connally said: ‘My job is to travel the world and plug leaks in this assassination row. I just left Red Duke in Afghanistan and by God that’s where you’ll be, George, if you don’t knock this Presidency shit off.’ And Wallace issued a weak statement to the press: ‘No, I won’t run.’ My message, et al, is this: With all this off and on stuff going on — let me make one thing perfectly clear — George Wallace will run for the presidency on a cross — a comfortable one — or the hard way, you know, nails and all that stuff. Tender that one to him, please. Connally quit everything — the Treachery Secretary and V.P. (Said he to Dickie: ‘V.P.? Fuck you. You’re hotter than a pistol. “Traitor,” Jane Fonda says.’) and Dickie had to fall back on Greeky Agnew, which is an approved Onassis Greek ticket. Mitchell quit everything and can’t help anybody from up Martha’s ass. Wilson quit and is hiding in Panhandle sagebrush. J. Mafia Hoover quit by apple pie. Teddy quit both Pres. and V.P. and stays close to Joanie’s ass — ready for a quick leap in. At the Mafia Miami Mafia Demo dead-fuck on Mary Jo, ten, count ‘em, ten, told Teddy McGovern, ‘V.P.? Fuck you — you’re hotter than a pistol. “Traitor,” they say.’ And so Teddy finally dredged up St. Louis Shenker Mafia Eagleton — a Mafia drunk who staggers in and out of nut houses (perfect qualifications for a President, says Dickie, and Marcello Boggs just before he fell off the podium). And now Teddy Mafia
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(Kennedy) tells Teddy (McGovern) to dump Eagleton and dredge up a new one — maybe Alioto, or Tham, or Genovese, or Lanza. We just can’t seem to find a President or a Vice President for the U.S. of Mafia. I tell ya what — you up there in that apartment behind the open window — or anybody up in those others — I’ll elect any two of you Pres. and V.P. — no charge. Jim, down the street in his bar, was complaining about business and I told him I could bring four-fifth’s of the civilized world into his bar for a drink — not necessarily booze — but thirsty — I mean thirsty — if he desired — and he agreed that I could do that, but no thanks. So, how about it? Is there anyone up and down the dead-fucking-Mary Jo streets of this necrophiliac nation — the U.S. of Mafia — who would like to be President or V.P. or both? Anyone?”
The apartment window slammed — and a few more down the block — and there was silence — and fog rolling in — so I went home. I’m sleepy. I’ll tell you about Teddy McGovern on Chappaquiddick weekend with Mafia Kimelman on Virgin Island — and Eagleton in St. Louis during his Mafia nut house days — and interesting foreign affairs — working fine — in India, Africa, South America, North Ireland, Egypt, Australia — and some other places — if I get around to it before the shit hits the fan via your local Mafia newspaper. Fallout from Option 3. But not now. This is very late on the evening of July 25, 1972.
Page Two Hundred Ninety
July 28, 1972
Murder — for you — from the Supreme Courts — Federal and State. From Mafia judges — selected from Mafia attorneys — who, like all ambassadors, purchased their jobs — mordida — the white envelopes. In their current urgency to protect themselves from now exposed treason, murder and high crimes against Mankind and Christ — by declaring the death penalty illegal — for any reason — they automatically release from prison those whose lives are committed to murder — such as Manson, who will, a few years from now, be roaming the street on his horror murder route. And Barboza — who confessed to 25 Mafia contract murders — and recently squawked on Sinatra — is due out now on parole. Any assassin — any cold blooded murderer — even hypnotic Sirhan — will be out. All those currently roaming the street are buying bullets — what do they have to lose? Any cold blooded murderer — This they release on you — in order to protect themselves from hanging for treason — “Enemy within, enemy without’ — Mafia, cancer, MMORDIS. ITT McCone and Helms CIA? “Waste ‘em.” S.F., L.A., San Diego, Washington, Rome, Skorpios.
Humphrey, in Mafia Miami: “Politics is Religion. Our Senate leaders are Teddy, Tunney and Hoffa Suitcase Montoya.”
Teddy McGovern: “Thailand is not part of Indochina. Heroin doesn’t exist. Therefore we will keep our missiles and planes and troops in Thailand to protect those heroin routes with ‘Hughes’ smart bombs and ‘Hughes’ helicopter gun ships, ‘Hughes’ satellites, and ‘Hughes’ missiles in McCone Bechtel missile silos.”
In San Francisco — Genovese, Alioto, Lanza and Chappaquiddick Broad Rene Arana — clerk, had a ball altering, destroying and deleting the Alioto hit-run records that started the expose of this shit. (Lastnight, 1400 Mafia-Alioto Bishops, etc., gathered to tribute Alioto on successful evasion of murder, treason and every high crime against mankind and Christ — The Vatican and Alioto divvied up $60 thousand in mordida loot and Bishop Hurley anointed. “It is outrageous for dirty politicians to crucify Alioto. He can stand taller than he really is.” Yes indeed — a cross.)
In St. Louis the six traffic citations on Eagleton for “drunk driving” had been altered by erasure to read “reckless driving” — Photostatted — and then the citations destroyed by the Cervantes-Shenker-Eagleton St. Louis Mafia group (check Denny Walsh). There was no hearing. Nothing. But the Photostats got out. Maf who run in and out of nut houses don’t like these deleted records getting out, because, like Thailand and Heroin, and the Mafia Election Process, and, and, and… — they don’t exist. So, for character reference, Eagleton directed a reporter to his closest friend — an unimpeachable source — Mafia Mayor Cervantes of St. Louis (who didn’t bother to sue “Life” for it’s detailed Mafia report on he and Shanker, Hoffa’s attorney). Said Mafia Cervantes: “Eagleton is as pure as Alioto.
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Teddy Eagleton never touched a drop — and it would be impossible to delete, alter or destroy police records in our Mafia City Hall — just as it is impossible to do so in Pure Mafia Alioto-Genovese-Lanza’s town.”
“And this,” noted the commentator, “does to Teddy Eagleton what Chappaquiddick did to Teddy Kennedy. I wonder what lurks for Teddy McGovern? Or one of the three that he will pick to replace Teddy Eagleton — Teddy Shriver, Teddy Mayor White, or Teddy Governor Lucey? What lurks for my boss — Teddy Hearst? And come to think of it — me? This is Teddy Cronkite, from Washington.” Station announcer: “Hmm. Teddy Dickie? Teddy Spiro? Teddy me?”
(During all this — the last two days — Teddy Eagleton was close at my elbow here in S.F. — conferring with Archbishop McGucken, Alioto, Genovese, Sweig, Lanza, Shorenstein, in Del Webb’s Mafia Towne House — and mopping Holy Water sweat from his Mafia brow.)
From South Dakota — Teddy McGovern comments on all this: “If I were President — the first thing I’d do would be to hang Thieu, Chiang Kai-Shek and J. Edgar Hoover.” J. Edgar Hoover, already murdered, is Teddy McGovern’s synonym for Alioto — who, with Hoover’s files, is now top Maf. For Teddy McGovern thinks back to Chappaquiddick weekend — when he was vacationing with Onassis Mafia Kimelman in the Virgin Islands. Notified of the murder, he quickly phoned and wired Teddy of his total support and availability as substitute. For it was he who picked up Bobby’s murdered body delegate votes in 1968 (JFK purchased Greedy McGovern in 1961 — appointed him director for Food For Peace). And then — just after I laid the entire Chappaquiddick murder out — publicly — to Dickie, et al — on Aug. 5, 1969 — Johnson met Dickie in Washington to close that end of the lid — “Dickie, We hang together, or we hang separately. Remember Howard Hughes?” — and in Washington, Kimelman (visibly, West Indies Corp. and Virgin Islands Hilton) called together McGovern and the Mafia to seal the deal (Present were Nader’s Senator Ribicoff — JFK lad who wants to invade Northern Ireland, Fred Dutton — JFK and Bobby, the Udall Bros. — JFK and Bobby; lawyer Myer Feldman — Onassis; Blair Clark — Vatican McCarthy’s Capo; and ten more — now identified — faceless Mafia). McGovern was the pick. Mr. Clean. Had he not chosen politics he was a shoe-in for Bishop of the Methodist Church — just as Teddy has a Papal Bishopcy waiting — anytime he wants it. Humphrey explains it: “Politics is Religion.”
All this because Alioto clobbered my car — cause Humphrey to lose the election — and Teddy to murder Mary Jo — and Onassis to murder Howard Hughes — and Dickie to murder my father. They were unkind to Yablonski and family. Abusive in Vietnam. They ate Christ’s liver and are chomping on my mother. A necrophiliac nation dead fucks on Mary Jo’s busted nose. And U.S. of Mafia pumps up Fatima #3. A hanging has been arranged.
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By 9:00 p.m., July 20, 1972, these papers were read by Roger Rudenstein — and group — S.F. Peace Coalition. By midnight, they were in the hands of Jerry Gordon, N.Y. attorney — national director of the Peace Coalition — in L.A. for the three day U.C.L.A. Peace March. In the morning — having read — Gordon, as directed, called an Ellsberg attorney. Gordon had a permanent tap on him. Ellsberg’s attorneys didn’t — a courtesy granted by Ellsberg to prove that the U.S. of Mafia is benevolent. Further proof of fairness: Justice delivered the contents of the tap to Mafia Federal Judged Matt Byrne (appointed by Mafia JFK) — prosecuting Ellsberg for Attorney General Mitchell, who has since disappeared up Martha’s ass. Vatican Mafia Judge Byrne (who purchased his job for $47,227) buried the tap in “total secrecy.” Then, to prove Mafia benevolence, told Ellsberg’s attorneys he had it, and had buried it (Byrne got the tap on Friday afternoon, July 21, 1972, held it over the weekend, and then told Ellsberg on Monday, when the trial was set to start. Ellsberg screamed “railroad.” And Byrne said, “Trial first, and then, if convicted, we’ll look into it.” This is illegal — but Byrne is as frightened as Eagleton. And McGovern. And Teddy. And Dickie. And Montini. And the entire necrophiliac half of the world). The “benevolent” reason for “Justice” bringing it to Byrne, and Byrne, reluctantly disclosing it, and then trying to pass it off — anything to get the rigged Mafia trial over with — a la the Berrigans — is that they knew they were being rigged. Their moves were being filmed.
Occasionally when I pick up my mother’s phone to call — a voice says “Claude, what’s up?” My father got that bit nearly four years ago when this shit first started. So, on the Tuesday before this bit started — July 18, 1972 — I called the Peace Coalition about bus fares and times to that L.A. Peace March. Then I said “Fine. I wanna go. Where do I buy a ticket?” They told me. (This was permissible to the CIA — for several reasons: 1) there wasn’t a fucking thing they could do to stop it, 2) the total clamp was on in L.A.) Which is why it was that the Mafia watched me deliver these papers — to Ellsbergs attorneys — via a batch of personal couriers — in approved Mafia CIA style, the way they deliver heroin. They were a little shocked — and worried about a rig — and film. So Justice brought the tap to Byrne on Friday afternoon. Byrne, with Chappaquiddick in his pocket, was still reluctant — until, over the weekend, he read several pursuant papers I accidentally lost around San Francisco — which verified the filming of his activity — and the notification of others concerned. And that is why the shit hit the fan on Monday, and I was spread-eagle on the street in S.F. by three of Alioto-Genovese-Lanza-Montini cops. Said Mafia Byrne: “The matter discussed in the tap” (Chappaquiddick) “has no relation to the Ellsberg trial. It is a completely separate matter. Irrelevant.”
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Ellsberg: “Unconstitutional! We defendants have an adversary right to determine whether it has a bearing on our defense.” Mafia Byrne, a la Dickie: “Fuck the constitution. I rule. Trial first — on our rigged schedule. Then, we might discuss it — if it doesn’t get deleted, destroyed or lost.” Ellsberg: “Unconstitutional! We appeal.” So, to the Federal Appeals Court — composed of Supreme Court Justice Douglas, James Browning, Sr., and Ely — whose Mafia status was previously described. Automatic Mafia denial — to Ellsberg — by that Mafia Court (Douglas was paid a quarter mill by Onassis for Stardust and Caribbean aid). So to Douglas personally — in Pasadena — request for Supreme Court to rule. Douglas: “Come to Yakima, Washington, where we can talk this over in private — make a Mafia deal.” Today, in Yakima, Mafia choices are being sorted over. Ellsberg’s Mafia Kennedy attorneys (Ellsberg did work for Kennedy — and was in Vietnam — blazing away with a machine gun on Vietnamese humans, just as Calley was in My Lai) — are blackmailing Mafia Douglas with Chappaquiddick. And Douglas is blackmailing them. Mitchell’s Justice is blackmailing both of them. Douglas can turn down Ellsberg — offer him a minor term — and loot — like Clifford Irving, and quickly and quietly get the trial over — safely — so it will be forgotten by the time of the Mafia Election, 1972. Or he can put it in purgatory. Until after that Mafia Election, 1972. You see, the Mafia Supreme Court is in recess. Can’t reconvene until after that gang bang on Christ. Yes, it is true — that they reconvened — in 4 hours — at the command of the Mafia Demo Party — to issue a quick ruling that “The Mafia Parties that select our leaders are a law that supersedes our law. That’s the way it is.” And then another ruling: “We do not reconvene once we are on our vacation.” So, there we are.
In the meantime — the entire Anti-War group — led by Jerry Gordon — gathered to unanimously endorse Teddy McGovern — and suddenly, Gordon announced the results: “We will endorse no candidate. Nobody. I’m going back to New York to meet my partner, Jane Fonda, who knows things — now — and labels Dickie the greatest traitor in history. She will endorse no candidate — even though as of last Thursday she had announced 1000% approval of Teddy McGovern. We aren’t even gonna be in Miami for the Republican gang bang on Christ. That’s well taken care of. We have changed our plans. We have a friend that resents Truman’s murder at Hiroshima.”
In New York: Jane Fonda gets off the plane from Hanoi: “No comment. I must talk to Jerry Gordon first.” Next day, she speaks, with hands folded in prayer —
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“What is a traitor? Dickie Nixon. The patriots are those speaking out against the war. I endorse nobody. I endorse peace. I am against death. I am for life. The men who are ordering the use of war weapons are was criminals according to international law — and in the past the men who were guilty of these kinds of crimes were tried and executed.”
Ah, yes. An academy award winning actress. We have an academy award winning actor running our state — Ronnie, baby. Wallace wants to prop up John Wayne — one of the Green Berets, who run heroin out of Thailand (check Wenker, McCoy) — to take his place.
All dead-fucking on Mary Jo’s grave. The Law is: Anyone dead-fucking on Mary Jo’s grave, and all that is buried there — will hang.
This is July 29, 1972. The noon news: “Douglas has granted a brief stay in the Ellsberg trial in order to consider wiretapping evidence.” Ah, yes — Ellsberg’s blackmail — and how to solve it, hide it, bury it — a la Chappaquiddick, Hughes. “Wallace has bowed out of the presidential race — on doctor’s orders.” The doctor was “Dallas Bullet” Connally who proposed an Afghanistan vacation for Gallant Fighter George Wallace — and his family.
My instructions to Rudenstein: “Get this to Ellsberg’s attorneys for me. It will also get Ellsberg out of jail.” He got it to them. And it did get Ellsberg out of jail. There was another instruction: “I want this copy back. This copy. I don’t care what Ellsberg’s attorneys do. If they want a copy that can run one off — or thousands, as Ellsberg did. I want this copy back.”
Rudenstein made two mistakes. He interrupted my questions and instructions — with a question. And he did not return that copy. It has now been ten days. That copy — the physical sheets — has the mark of Cain upon it. There is no margin for error. Time ticks on.
U.N. Secretary General Waldheim states” “Bombing the dikes! That is the murderous drowning of millions of civilians!” Responds Dickie: “Fuck ‘em. Me and Montini and Teddy and Onassis have established a precedent for Pond drowning at Chappaquiddick — and for Holy Crusades — and so the Dyke Pond drowning is legal.” And the nervous Mafia finger that signs Betty Waterhouse’s checks, shakily rattles nukes — “Fuck ‘em. We can blot them out in an afternoon. They should be happy that we only kill at random.” (Helms’ “Waste ’em” — Abrams Acres, My Lai, fruit of thy Genovese-Alioto womb) “How will these presidents look with shit on their faces?” I asked Barbara Phillips. The answer is that — to shit — shit is beautiful. A necrophiliac nation of shit, dead-fucking on Mary Jo’s grave.
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Dyke Bridge at Poucha Pond — Dyke bombing in Vietnam — it’s the same drowning, the same murder, for the same reason. Next up — you.
Tanya’s. Joseph P. Kennedy’s Tanya in Kiev (assists by FDR-Onassis-J. Mafia) is the same as John F. Kennedy’s Tanyas in Vietnam (assists by Vatican Spellman’s Holy Crusade — lamented now by Teddy — “What about the Tanya’s in Vietnam?”) is the same as Teddy Kennedy’s Tanya at Chappaquiddick. Next up — you.
(“Waste ‘em — S.F., L.A., San Diego — Washington, Rome, Skorpios — Helms, CIA)
Roosevelt explained this to his press corps — World War II — re. D-Day in Europe. His words: “You want to get the word ‘invasion’ out of people’s heads all over the world. It’s a war of liberation. All wars will be wars of liberation from now on. Holy Crusades.” Fatima #1, 2 and yours, #3. Other FDR quotes: “I hate war.” “Pearl Harbor — Day of Infamy.”
During the midst of this current Eagleton V.P. qualification shit, a bill to end the war — total pullout by Election Day — cleared the House and lacked only two votes to clear the Senate. Those two votes — Senators Teddy McGovern and Senator Teddy Eagleton — were off somewhere in a Mafia back room fighting the Teddy Kennedy Vatican Presidential battle. They forgot about ending the war.
Eagleton was selected in a back room — basis of Mafia Religion, Mafia districts, and Mafia rackets — the handmaidens (Cervantes, Montini, Meany, Daley, McDonnell).
So was Onassis-Pappas’ Greeky Agnew. In Skorpios.
And Teddy McGovern — in Onassis’ Caribbean — on Chappaquiddick Day.
And Dickie — long ago, by a banker — because he had the greatest rat potential in the world. Proven many times — Helen Gahagen Douglas — through “Hughes” Apalachin 1957 — Chappaquiddick — and the murder of my father. A perfect pick to lead Fatima #3.
Five years ago — a million dollars (“seven figures” is what “Lillo” offered me on August 9, 1969) was passed under the table to Charles Perlick and the other directors of the Newspaper Guild — by the CIA (Guild — a Mafia union of news reporters). This was to guarantee Mafia censorship — by Onassis. This year, Onassis paid their Nixon-hedge Mafia mordida to endorse Teddy (any Teddy — Kennedy, McGovern, Eagleton — plus whichever Vatican Teddy replaces Teddy Eagleton — Teddy Muskie, from last time out, or Teddy Boston White, or Teddy O’Brien). This year — all of the millions from Joanie’s Mafia Demo Telethon — an orgy of dead-fucking on Mary Jo’s grave — went into Mafia Murderer Tony Boyle’s National Bank of Washington — from which he loot the $169 million
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Pension funds and paid for the murders of the Yablonski family — with the approval of Dickie’s Secretary of Labor — Schultz. True Davis is the Mafia President of that bank, for Mafia Tony Boyle. True Davis was Johnson’s Ambassador to Switzerland, where Mafia loot from American banks is “washed” and returned via the “Hughes” Mafia Money Funnel to “contribute” — for instance — $35,000 from Tony Boyle to Hubert Humphrey, in 1968 — in a campaign which was junked by an Alioto hit-run on Sept. 16, 1968 at 10:45 p.m., at Franklin and Lombard. (Tony Boyle was given a 10 year sentence for that. He murdered the Yablonski family. He is not in jail. He is running for president of the union again. Federal law says he cannot run for that election. The bank is still going strong. True Davis will be the next Ambassador to Switzerland.) True Davis is the one who released that “drunk driving” citation (six destroyed — all but four sets) on Eagleton to Jack Anderson. True Davis wants to scratch Eagleton for the real Teddy Kennedy. Mafia Strauss, former Democratic Treasurer whose feet were on the middle of my back from Sept. 16, 1968 on, is the only man who can withdraw that loot. He works for Onassis and wants to scratch Eagleton for the real Ted Kennedy. An entire necrophiliac nation moans for the throne for the real Teddy Kennedy. Including me. We may have to drag that reluctant president into that oval office with a rope around his neck and prop him upright — properly — there, on a Montini cross — slightly off the floor — since everyone knows that Teddy can walk on Chappaquiddick water, busted noses, dead fucked graves — and putrid floor board Poucha Pond Bubble Air. Christ himself never walked on air.
Let’s see. A letter, from me, quickly elected Dickie in 1968 — and a batch of fallout, from bombing halts to a sudden interest in a new mineral and Chappaquiddick and “Hughes/” Another letter — re. Chappaquiddick, the solution, tilted the world — Pope, Russia, China, and the U.S. of Mafia . In four days — in April, 1970 — a letter to Mafia Judge Aitken — now employed by Mafia U.S. Attorney Browning, set off the Cambodian invasion. In four days — in August, 1970 — a letter to Necrophiliac Nader set him up in the holy business via an Onassis bribe. Fallout all over the place — Harry Yee’s $6 billion S.F. heroin — China in the U.N. — Taiwan out — Kissinger’s begging trips to Peking — and, with Dickie, to Moscow and Peking. A letter to Garry quickly secured the release of Angela Davis — and all Black Panthers in jail — including Hilliard, who, before a crowd of 10,000 — on TV — declared, “I will murder Richard Nixon.” Fallout all over the place — Mitchell up an asshole, Teddy up an asshole, Connally, Wallace — apple pie to others. So much, I can’t remember them all at this tired moment — although they are all out — accurate and detailed — in the cold angry fingers of people who also push nuclear buttons.
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On July 20, 1972, I handed a letter to Rudenstein — “It will get Ellsberg out of jail.” On July 24, 1972, Ellsberg was out of jail.
That’s four days.
This world will — 1) Reverse itself over a four-day Holiday — the Eleventh Commandment — “Murderers on a cross, not me” — or 2) go out in a 22-hour songfest — or 3) go our in a Fatima #3 one hour Holy Crusade — followed by a 21-hour remnant songfest. Whichever choice, whichever comes first, there will be singing.
Four days from now is my father’s birthday — Aug. 3, 1972. He is murdered ashes, at Cypress Lawn. He enjoyed singing. So did Mary Jo. During the four years of my father’s murder. birthdays were rather slim. I am going to be at Cypress Lawn and hand him the mobiles — eternity yo-yo’s — that he wants to sing to him. And ask him to pass out the others to Mary Jo, Tisserant, Father Mootz, Yablonski family, Newsom’s nieces, Tanya — ah, the list is long. And so are the strings of mobiles. I will go by streetcar, transfer, and bus — and then walk over the hill — a long walk — behind Hearst’s mausoleum with this gift. I have no car. The Mafia CIA wants it this way. I will be alone. My mother can’t make it. Her murder is half done. She can’t climb over the hill. The rest of the family? Running — like Ma and Pa Kopechne — Lagos, Nigeria, for instance. The Canadian border. The Mexican border.
And a Happy Birthday to you? Yes.
Let’s see. When was Christ’s birthday? Was it Christmas? Who was his father?
Let’s go back to L.A. Ellsberg. Trial to start Monday, July 24, 1972. The forced admission of existence of the Jerry Gordon wire tap — the Ellsberg screams — the hasty week of appellate and Supreme Court decisions to lid the contents of that phone call. A final desperate threat by Mafia Dickie’s Mafia U.S. Attorney Nissen to call together the Mafia Supreme Court — for the second time in a century (first was during the Mafia Demo Convention in four hours) — in emergency session. And today, the news consensus: “The Ellsberg trial has ended. Douglas has granted a 30-day stay — for the defense to prepare a presentation to Dickie’s Mafia Supreme Court — presided over by Mafia Burger, who gave Onassis the ships, and including three more of Dickie’s Onassis boys, plus Douglas, of the Onassis Stardust payroll, and one of JFK’s appointees, and a few more assorted Maf — all of whom voided the death sentence for treason — their own. This Supreme Court will reconvene in the fall — and consider this simple overheard phone conversation,” (it was a simple overheard phone conversation that murdered Mary Jo — and another that murdered Eugenie Niarchos, Onassis’ first love, sister-in-law, and now, sometime recipient of his grave fucking). And that will be after the 1972 Mafia Election gang bang on Christ — and the entire matter will disappear — as have all of the other lid poppers — and Ellsberg has made his deal — “I’ve got better voodoo than you do” — with the Mafia — and today these two Christ figures who carry Project Star On Dallas in their back pockets — Ellsberg and Russo, are out eulogizing the public about the horrors of war — as did FDR and JFK and Johnson and Dickie. Nader is on deodorants. And Pachtner manipulates recalled GM cars.
Primitive stark legal Mafia hang out in action: At the L.A. Appellate Court hearing, Mafia U.S. Attorney Nissen bluntly told the three Mafia Judges, “We admit Mafia Judge Byrne is illegal in not releasing that tape about Chappaquiddick. We admit that he is illegal in ruling that the Mafia rigged trial continue. But, your Honors, you have heard it. We will all hang — all of us — us cancer — and that includes you, your Honors.” All in the court rose, stood at attention, facing Mecca, northeast from L.A., and two handed, in unison — and then court resumed and Nissen spoke these blunt, immortal words:
“If we disclose it, there is no way we can un-disclose it.”
The Court: “Ellsberg’s stay denied. Tape is buried. Permanently. Trial continues.”
(Since reversed, of course, By Ellsberg’s voodoo in the Supreme Court — nine old necrophiliac Mafia — who will solemnly declare missiles illegal, while they comb them out of their hair and clutch a rotting belly button and tug away at a mineral goose up the ass — and this is quite a feat, even for experienced two-handed cancers — and join in the Mafia Chorus: Chappaquiddick, My Chappaquiddick, Why Do I Love Thee, My Teddeee, My Teddeee…”
And so it is that we now speak of thirsty, skinny, liver missing people around the world. The four-fifths of the civilized world who can, at any moment, stop in at Jim’s — thirsty — but not necessarily for booze. I saw a film of Cambodian peasants walking out of the jungle — each carrying two heads by the bloody hair — grinning happily, still drooling fresh-eaten, live juice of liver. As the heads passed by the camera, the tags in the noses were visible — Lansky, Patriarcha, Marcello, Lanza, Alioto, Genovese, Kennedy, Cervantes, Onassis. It was a practice session for these people. All the attorneys I went to were there — from the first two, Nixon and Mitchell, through Billy Lewis, Davis, Mack, Stout, Wright, Garry, Weinglass, Boudin. All the press — Carlson, Cowles, Hearst, Sulzberger, Loeb, Nolan, Brugmann. TV — Derrough, Stanton, ITT Ireland, Goldenson. Miscellaneous — Nader, Hoover, Wilson, Johnson, Truman, McCone, Helms. Buckets of Board of Director heads. Bringing up the rear were the trains of opium mules
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no longer needed in the defoliated opium fields — hauling tons of loot, formerly attached to the criminal heads — criminal only — which passed. Onassis’ yacht was there. And I thought back to unwanted babies. You know — a distraught mother bundles her baby up and leaves her, him, or it on a doorstep, with a note — “Please find a home for my baby. It is good, clean, real, true, and untainted. Nobody wants it. If you don’t, please forward it on to someone who might.”
Long ago, Ellsberg sack-of-babies were left on doorsteps. Many doorsteps. They did find homes. A year and a half ago, when Javit’s aide prodded me at Bill’s (back in here somewhere) I told him about a U.N. resolution which would be introduced by Chile. this was because of a communication I had received from Chile — a stranger — who notified me that my baby had found a home in every country down the Andes spine. He spoke bitterly of ITT, Bank of America, Anaconda, and a few more and mentioned a letter from Hoover to Brady — in Brazil — congratulating Brady on the FBI-CIA-Montini-Medici terror takeover in Brazil. He spoke bitterly of Montini-Onassis-Peron in Argentina. Columbia. And it ended with a funny phrase: “Fok Kannady.”
One set went over with IRA cash from S.F. to Ireland. Later an IRA man climbed into a Belfast protégé bedroom window and threw the sack to Ma and Pa in bed and said, “Read,” over the sight of his Bren. They read. And then, the gun was set aside and all three went to the stove and threw in their crosses. That night, Montini lost one patron — and the Archbishop of Canterbury lost two. The two men now guide eachother around mines — shoot across eachother all day long — and at night work together cranking out copies. Peace has come to two Irish families. “Fok Kannady.”
Africa and India were heard from. More. And a pattern developed. The route of the baby distribution was up the asshole of the 600 million soldiers of the Vatican Church — in its Medusa hold around the world. Tisserant’s papers jammed down the Papal throat, these babies up his ass. Like ice tongs — clanking together at the belly button — to lift God to his throne.
Most now know of the Thai-Laotian heroin, missile silos, air bases — profiting the entire Maf — Montini, Dickie, Pentagon, Multinationals — millions per death.
Let’s look at Body Count MacNamara — formerly accounting those millions per death for the Mafia — now promoted to counting the millions per death via the World Bank. Paraguay. Destitute. But a $100 million loan to the Montini Dictator. Super freeway — running for many miles through the jungle — from a swamp to a cliff. Prompt payments back to World Bank — beautiful on the books. Paraguayan peasants’ taxes are doubled. They now work 14 hours a day to pay their taxes. Cost of the highway to McCone, Bechtel, BRT-MK? — $5 million. Balance? $25 million to Montini-Onassis (Switzerland), $25 million
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to Dickie, McCone and the boys (Bahamas), $25 million to Lansky and the boys (Singapore) — to handle the Thai heroin into Alioto’s S.F. and on through the “Hughes” Mafia Money Funnel — to keep the loot rolling. Use of freeway? During the day, sunbathing by peasants and jungle animals. During the evening, U.S. Ambassador and Paraguayan Cabinet loading Onassis’ planes with cocaine and heroin for Marcello and Boggs in New Orleans — and those planes use that jungle runway all night long. A good investment for Body Count MacNamara and the World Bank. Taxes on any of that loot in the U.S. of Mafia? None. You make up any shortages during the daytime. At night you get mugged and murdered by the hopheads who need loot to purchase the shit. Your loot.
Around the world a pattern is emerging. At the top — of the non-Mafia countries — decorum is stringent. Russia — invited to Egypt because Dulles wouldn’t build the Aswan Dam — built the thing, invested heavily, then departed. Just the opposite of the U.S. of Mafia in heroin Vietnam. Russia and China shoot dope pushers — two in the back of the head. The U.S. of Mafia elects them president and sends the Pentagon around the world to install similar dictators — anywhere — Taiwan, Saigon, Athens, Brazil, Argentina.
Chile — despite U.S. attempts to rig elections there — and economic starvation, in retribution for failure — quietly waits. China waits — unprovoked by U.S. border-mining, bombing, missile silos. India growls and waits. Mexico’s Echeverria warns Dickie — “You made a huge mistake backing Montini’s terror Medici’s in Brazil and shafting Allende in Chile.”
At the bottom — asshole end — the movement is quiet — like practice runs in Cambodia for criminal heads — and liver. And Japanese travel groups. And South American groups. African.
Said McGovern — re. the Kennedy-Eagleton squabble: “I don’t know how much more strain our system can stand.”
It’s simple. The answer is Chappaquiddick. The world wants that. The law: “Anyone who dead-fucks on Mary Jo’s grave — and all that is buried there — will hang.”
Part of the fallout from Option 3. And what others are doing. And, in no way related to what one man has arranged. Option 4 is under way. Join me at a birthday party at Cypress Lawn — where I shall present mobile strings to my father — on August 3, 1972 — halfway between the dead-fucking of Mary Jo at Miami — and the upcoming gala — a gang bang on Christ. The Mafia can not murder the dead. But the dead can murder them. This is known as equal justice for all.
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August 2, 1972
On July 31, 1972 — twelve days after Rudenstein took a copy of these papers to Ellsberg — I called Rudenstein. I left my name. “Not in,” said the girl. No call back. Aug. 2, 1972, I called again. “Out. Will be back before 5:30. I was there at the Peace office at 5:30. “He may be back before 7:30.” So I talked to girls in the office. “What happened in L.A.? News was blacked out. Did Ellsberg speak?” Answer: “No. He canceled. Something sudden came up about his defense.” Me: “Did you endorse McGovern?” Answer: “No, we decided to concentrate on anti-war measures. We are preparing to get our papers out in the event of some catastrophe occurring before the 1972 election. I was with Rudenstein all afternoon talking about that.” Me: “What catastrophe is it that you refer to?” Answer: “Oh, something like the bombing of the dikes in Vietnam. We are working for the acceptance of Hanoi’s 7 points. We meet tonight to discuss future plans at the Unitarian Church.” Me: “Are you connected with Jane Fonda’s Indochina Peace group?” Answer: “Not directly. But we communicate on important issues.” (All have read this — all know me.)
A belligerent comes in and lectures one of the girls — as I sit there listening. “Big Brother is watching you. You are in trouble. Hanoi is a corporation, just as we are. We are clean. You are dirty.” Rudenstein pulls up — parks on the sidewalk (Market Street — downtown — tore up — Bart — nobody can do this). Cops drive by. Ignore (which is odd, since on the Monday Ellsberg screamed about the Gordon “Chappaquiddick” wire tap, cops spread-eagled me on Montgomery Street for walking on the sidewalk, then delivered a Mafia rattle). Rudenstein nods to me, gets paper sack from the desk and brings it over to me in a corner — and makes 25 mistakes in the next 5 minutes. Programmed like a robot. “I took them to L.A., but Ellsberg canceled his speech at U.C.L.A. and I didn’t get to see