-Caveat Lector-
from alt.conspiracy
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As always, Caveat Lector.
Om
K
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<A HREF="aol://5863:126/alt.mindcontrol:39874">Re.The Disney Deception</A>
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Subject: Re.The Disney Deception
From: [EMAIL PROTECTED]
Date: Thu, Mar 25, 1999 5:02 PM
Message-id: <7dembi$hg2$[EMAIL PROTECTED]>
SM<[EMAIL PROTECTED]>wrote
>Information given to me. Thought I would pass it on
>CHAPTER 5
>SCIENCE NO.5-THE SKILL
>OF
>LYING, THE ART OF DECEIT
snip
>An example of something which appears to have happened naturally
>is the O.J.Simpson case, which was planned based on previous murder
>scenarios which had been successfully covered up
snip
>The Mishpucka, the CIA, the Mob,
>and the Illuminati have all had their dirty hands involved in the
>entire affair
Well, I know a little bit about this whole thing from the inside. I
work for Joey the Lip & it was my job to take care of the original
hitter, Maxi Pro(Max Provensano), after everything went awry in the Criminal
case. The following is an excerpt from his diary, which I removed from his
person after I dispatched the old fart. As his own word indicated, he'd been
around too long & knew too much.
Diary excerpt: It's hard to believe things have got so messed up in my life
just because of this O.J. fiasco. Jesus, the Brown whack was a piece of cake,
even when that Goldman kid showed up. Man, when he came walking up to the
house, he got one of the most appalling shocks of his life, which was not to
last much longer. He put up a good fight for an amateur, but, hey, it's my
job & for the 250 large they paid me, what's another stiff, you know what I
mean? I'd already knocked Nicole around plenty good & cut her a few times,
she wasn't going anywhere, so I just concentrated on the kid & in a few
minutes, he was nothing but gurgles. I was kinda having fun, you know;
usually I have to make it look very neat, one bullet, like an enemy or a
lover or a drive-by; or else really pro, like a "gang-style execution", hey,
I invented that, but whatever; or else maybe like an accident, for insurance
pay-offs or no police report, you know, spill a cyanide-laced drink on their
laps, later! But can you believe fucking cops, they hire a guy to do some
dirt, then they say, "Make it look like an accident, we don't want all the
paperwork." So the Combination tells me the Brown job is supposed to look
really rage, like O.J. flipped or something, no problem, I can do psycho as
good as the next guy… Then I read in the paper about Ms. Clark & Company
versus Johnnie Cockroach & posse, when whose name appeared but my old
stumbling block, Herr Fuhrmann (my spelling). I knew trouble was brewing as
soon as I read his name in the news. Little did I know then how bad the
trouble was to become, but luckily I didn't wait around L.A. to find out just
how bad. I'd run up against Herr Fuhrmann before. I worked a hit on a local
South Central drug kingpin. I'd been doing the junkie number for 30 odd
years, so no problem, made it look like typical rival-gang drug-war overkill
with plenty of semi-auto lead, the Herr Fuhrmann came on the scene with his
own Aryan Agenda & his minor league Klan shaking things up, making up
evidence, taking out key players in a game he wasn't even invited to see, &
nearly making the whole plan fall the wrong way. Luckily he was too small fry
of a fuck-up to tilt the big picture. He got raked over the coals something
fierce by his own, but looked like he was too dumb-shit to get it. So I
realized that if he'd screwed things up this time & jeopardized the case &
things went against the plan & somehow O.J. walked, then my name jumped to #1
on the hit list, because the last thing THEY need floating around in the
midst of the shit-storm was the real perp. Especially this particular perp,
who had wisely covered his own sweet ass from the first step, many years ago
when I was called upon because of my unquestionable loyalty, to "fix things
up at Cielo Drive" for the Tate mess-up.
End of excerpt
#################################
I have the rest of the diary if anyone is interested in reading the
whole thing. He took off to the Caribbean & hid his tracks well by
changing identity often, but I followed him to a leper colony where
he was holed up. Here's my part of the tale...
#################################
The island was a stinking wasteland & I was instantly thankful I had the
foresight to bring my gas mask. I slipped it on & breathed a cleanly
filtered sigh of relief. The grounds of the Sanatorium was littered with
puke-covered, shit-splattered corpses being languidly devoured by the
tropic sun & ravaging flies. I could hear faint sounds coming from the
Director's quarters, so I stealthily made my way toward its source.
Once inside, I removed my gas mask for a more unobstructed view & to
avoid any unintentional noise. I rubbed the furrowed welts as I paused,
breathing in the untainted exotic atmosphere. The sound had increased in
volume, more than enough to cover any slight tremor I might cause. It
seemed to be coming from the northwesternmost room, which I quickly
recalled from the floor plans I had studied was the Director's den. I ran
down the layout of the den in my head & made my move.
As I soundlessly opened the door to the den & slippped into the shadows
near the left-hand corner, I took in the room instantly, applying years
of training in a glance. The room was occupied by only one other person.
The sounds were coming from the big-screen TV that he sat facing, his back
to me. He was relaxing in a plush recliner, flipping through the channels
with an unbelievable calm as he thumbed the remote. As I watched, frozen
in the dim,he casually smoked a huge, stinking cigar & drank some dark
drink with clinking ice from a sweating tumbler. All this I took in in an
instant.
All the channels on the TV that he flipped through seemed to be broad-
casting the same late breaking news about Heaven's Gate, so I guessed the
hit had gone off without a hitch & the Zionist liberal media was buying
the mumbo-jumbo. I figured he had been involved in too many similar
escapades in his long career, for he appeared infinitely bored with it all.
Then Court TV came around on the spinning wheel of fortune. They were
showing Charles Manson's parole hearing & he halted his channel changing
abruptly, seemed frozen, by the reverie of times long past or by the huge
eyes & words from the screen I could not tell, but in fact the hypnotic
quality of Manson's voice or his eloquent pychobabble mesmerized me
momentarily. I broke from my own malaise with dterminatin & purpose. While
he was enraptured by the program, I strode quickly across the distance that
seperated us & brought the end of the silencer swinging up to his left
temple. He began to slowly pull away from the larger than life-size image
on the screen as Manson said, "That's where the big eagles fly!" He
slightly turned toward my presence & the look upon his face, that look of
instant comprehension, was a sweet reward, almost enough of itself, such
an exquisite taste. I pulled twice. The gun coughed twice. He slumped
forward. The task was finished. Now for the gold, man.
If you conspiracy believers only knew the inside stories, you'd be
changing you're underwear. Kick out the jams.
Nathan Nothin'
The name sez it all
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Aloha, He'Ping,
Om, Shalom, Salaam.
Em Hotep, Peace Be,
Omnia Bona Bonis,
All My Relations.
Adieu, Adios, Aloha.
Amen.
Roads End
Kris
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