-Caveat Lector- from: http://www.zolatimes.com/SS/Bloodtrail1.html <A HREF="http://www.zolatimes.com/SS/Bloodtrail1.html">Blood Trail: Arkansas to Canada </A> ----- Dead & Dying Did an Arkansas Governor en route to the White House knowingly profit from the sale of tainted blood to Canada, where as many as 80,000 people today suffer from Hepatitis C and AIDS? ===== <A HREF="http://www.zolatimes.com/SS/BloodTrail2.html">BLOOD TRAIL PROLOGUE: A Novel by Michael Sulliv </A> ----- ------------------------------------------------------------------------ In Arkansas, the biggest money for up and coming politicos like Bill and Hillary Clinton is made from the graft involving the Highway Department and the State Prison System. Of course the Governor doesn't touch the graft money directly, it's always supervised, and the money is collected, by a middleman. In Arkansas that man was none other than Vincent Foster, Jr. Blood Trail is the story of how inmates in Arkansas were given drugs in exchange for blood. Among the heavy donors [as much as twice a week] were young male prostitutes knowingly infested with HIV and Hepatitis C. Although written as fiction, anyone who is knowledgeable of the facts can tell you that this very important story told by the author of Blood Trail 'rings of truth'. Michael Galster is the real name of Michael Sullivan who is the Author of Blood Trail. Galster, a medical practitioner, was working in the Arkansas prison system when the blood was being collected. He saw blood being drawn from inmates. He wrote his novel Blood Trail under the pseudonym "Michael Sullivan" before he began his own in-depth investigation of the events. But the comparisons between the unfolding investigation and the book are startling and may hold the key to understanding how and why Vince Foster met a tragic and untimely death. Read a sample of the book's content here on line: ------------------------------------------------------------------------ BLOOD TRAIL PROLOGUE by Michael Sullivan Ivory woke from the pain. The weight of Cutter's huge body on him was more than he could bear. His fever burned again. He could not open his eyes. The crud that oozed out during his restless sleep cemented them shut and he could not pry them open with his fingertips. The problem had been getting worse for weeks. Ivory fumbled for the jar of water he kept under his side of the bed and dabbed at what was left of his eyelashes. Finally he could see enough to distinguish the faint light drifting through the barred windows at the end of the barracks. Cautiously, he slipped his body from under Cutter's sedated flab. Small chance that the big shit would stir at this early hour, but Ivory couldn't afford to take risks. Cutter was always mean and the lingering effects of the downers would make him meaner. He'd give Ivory a beating for certain if his sleep were disturbed. Cutter looked like a grossly fat black Rottweiler sprawled across the bed. His lower lip sagged and his tongue hung out. Ivory shuddered. Ivory straightened his cramped legs and pulled his prison issued boxers up around his bony hips. There wasn't much to hold them up these days. He shuffled across the sanded pine floor to the toilets. No one else was awake except old Slappy Joe, finishing his cleaning chores. Ivory could hear the grunts and snores of the other inmates beyond the scrimwall that Cutter had erected across his end of the room. The divider was made of old cotton table linens stitched together, weighted with broken broom handles sewn into the hem, and hung from a rafter. This bit of privacy cost Cutter dearly with the guards and attested to his untouchable power within the prison population. Ivory fought to control his morning nausea and squatted at the commode to expel some of the nastiness from his bowels. He cleaned himself and walked over to the sink to wash. He splashed water on his face and stared at himself in the mirror - something he almost never did any more, not like the old days. The changes in his appearance frightened him. The bony arches across his forehead, the sunken cheeks, the dark circles under his stained and weary eyes; all of this stared back at him. He was no longer beautiful. He had always been a loving and sweet boy. His mother's sisters named him Ivory because his skin was smooth and creamy like the keys on an old piano. The women had held him close and babied him and raised him like a little girl until the street took him. He was thirteen then. The boy found that he could turn tricks with a special class of businessmen and make enough money to buy his way out of the slums of east Little Rock. But Ivory developed a special craving for a new form of cocaine that hit the streets in the late 70's. The dealers taught him how to pop it into his arms, then between his fingers and toes, and finally in any vein that would flow. The drug took possession of him, heart and soul, and in short order landed him at Cummins, the huge prison-farm in South Arkansas. No one back home would recognize him now. In one long agonizing year, his teeth had yellowed and gapped. His once beautiful complexion was now rough and broken. Large dark patches formed on his neck and back, and he had been plagued with recurrent chest infections. Ivory knew he was sick. Really sick. But he had to get to the showers and get ready to walk down to the infirmary. He wasn't going for treatment this morning. The nurses said he was fine. He was going for his weekly appointment to give his blood and Cutter would kill him if he failed to bring the "yellow boys" back. Percodan. Those pills and the little bit of ass he had left were the only two things that kept him in the good graces of Cutter. There were no options. Ivory couldn't take his eyes from the mirror. He tried to cry, but the tears had long ago dried. He reached up and toughed the reflection in the mirror the way the white men used to touch him. Poor, sweet Ivory" he whined in his mother's voice. "Sweet baby Ivory. What's happened to you, chile?" His hand slid down the smooth face of the mirror and his eyes caught a glimpse of the scarred veins in his arms. He rubbed them and suddenly felt as though all his energy had slipped from his emaciated body. For the first time Ivory realized that he was dying. He realized that the remaining two years of his sentence might as well be a death warrant. Without hesitation, he reached over and grabbed the safety razor. Cutter had bought it from a guard so that Ivory could shave his legs. He twisted the razor open as he walked into the showers and removed the double-edged blade, holding it in his teeth as he slipped out of his boxers and turned on the showerhead. When the steam began to roll off the floor he sat under the warm spray with his back against the wall and plunged the razor deep into veins of his scrawny arms. He was surprised at how little pain there was. He tilted his head back and enjoyed the slight buzz that began to invade his consciousness. Ivory laughed quietly. He was pulling a great joke on the prison officials who expected him this morning. He decided to do what he wanted with his blood. It was his, after all, and now it was washing across the painted floor and down through the sewers of Cummins. He was finally his own person again. No one could touch him. . . not the guards, not the doctors, and not even Cutter. With a tiny laugh and then an even smaller whimper, nineteen-year-old Ivory Watkins passed from the world and made his parole the hard way. ----- Aloha, He'Ping, Om, Shalom, Salaam. Em Hotep, Peace Be, Omnia Bona Bonis, All My Relations. Adieu, Adios, Aloha. Amen. Roads End Kris DECLARATION & DISCLAIMER ========== CTRL is a discussion and informational exchange list. Proselyzting propagandic screeds are not allowed. Substance—not soapboxing! These are sordid matters and 'conspiracy theory', with its many half-truths, misdirections and outright frauds is used politically by different groups with major and minor effects spread throughout the spectrum of time and thought. That being said, CTRL gives no endorsement to the validity of posts, and always suggests to readers; be wary of what you read. CTRL gives no credeence to Holocaust denial and nazi's need not apply. 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