"What does a rubber famine do, Daddy?"

"It makes your money worth nothing."

America is in the fast lane to debt slavery https://t.co/eht8gaIMxY

— Elon Musk (@elonmusk) June 4, 2025

"How do you stop a rubber famine, Daddy?" 

""Round up every debt slave who moves and ship them to an Amazon jungle."

As far as mind , this is mine

By Mack Edward McColl

For some reason I've never had a fear of God. I've always found him to be a source of curiosity. I survived mental torture (character assassination), spiritual torment, physical torture, up to the last attack, which was so belligerent it blew my soul right out of my body and left me physically crushed as well, and the wash-out of a chemical attack upon my brain was supposed to render me senseless forever. 

A most intense attack occurred one very lethal period of a few weeks in late 2004. From this period I hope to recover. Meanwhile, I'm writing a book about it, whereas the hope of recovery continues to fade. 

So this is not a story about a beautiful woman who comes along to a song that itself is unforgettable. No. That shit happens every day. This is autobiographical (if you believe that I believe God lived in my basement for a few months when I was child and that I met him later in direct contact). These are face-to-face meetings too, by the way. I'm not hiding from him and he's not hiding from me. I'm not staring at shadows or taking short glimpses behind veils or walking up mountains and coming down with stone tablets with etchings on them. 

Otherwise it's a mystery story more than anything, with part of the mystery being how could such a story be true? Born Mack Edward McColl, in 1954, I had a lazy right eye, which was crossed inward; I had a pigeon-toed right foot, and it was flat-footed. I had a right testicle that had to be pulled into position when I was 10 years old, in 1965, before it was too late (and perhaps I have the introduction of universal Medicare in Canada that same year to thank for that second nut).

 My mother may have had difficulty looking me at me, especially eye-to-eye (generating those essential endorphins), because within two years of my birth she arranged a medical procedure to straighten the right eye with surgery, as done by 'Wint', Dr. D. 

My mom was friends of the doctor's wife Lorraine. I recall a few family visits for supper to the Dr. D's residence in upscale Valleyview. These are mainly archetype-phase recollections about Dr. D's residence. He wasn't much of a presence, to be completely honest. I believe the doctor had a Corvette in the driveway, all the rage in the late 1950s. I would have stood around touching the car all afternoon but the house had a pop-dispensing machine in a 1950s hi-tech kitchen and I recollect the machine empty, and recall wondering why they would have a magnificent piece of equipment that was empty, thus, useless. 

They had three kids, the oldest a girl, Cathleen, and then came two boys closer to my age, with names like Jerry and “JayDee”. The family moved to San Jose, California by the time I was five or six, around 1960, when my younger brother was born. My mother made trips to San Jose, but my dad didn't go more than once, if then, and my younger brother took a couple of trips to San Jose, with my mother, and one extended stay by himself. (My brother was given the middle name Winston and was my mother's favorite child. Maybe the free-love movement started sooner than commonly thought, and a tryst with Wint might explain my brother's forehead.)

Lorraine had family in Edmonton because she made several return trips and fly-pasts. Her face was beautiful but the California sun proved unkind and within a decade the skin on her face looked like a piece of dried fruit. (I am informed) the surgery was probably avoidable and unnecessary because the eye was increasing to its maximum function and other things straightened over the course of time. The lazy eye was not extremely crossed according to the earliest photo. 

There is only one, done by a professional photographer who knew what he was working with in mother and son relations. (My older sister says, "Well it wasn't that crossed," and in the single picture it doesn't appear crossed at all.) Although procedures like eye surgeries were expensive and unlikely for anyone prior to my generation, my mother insisted I be 'repaired' and among my first conscious memories is a feeling of claustrophobia and scratching to get out of a post-surgical oxygen tent, crying like hell, presumably chafing at feelings of agony in my face near my eye (an outside muscle had been cut and shortened). I remember nurses rustling around the oxygen tent, tacitly working around and through the dense structure to calm me down (by increasing the requisite morphine). 

 Post-surgical rehabilitation involved wearing an eye patch over the left eye and forcing the right eye to formulate images. I sat cross-legged on the floor in front of the TV forced to wear the patch during my favorite shows. TV might have well as been Picasso's work because the best I could see was a Picasso-like picture in my head. Motions on the black and white screen were evident, perceptions were terribly skewed. The eye suffices for peripheral vision and remains what ophthalmologists call 20 percent. The clinical name for the disorder is amblyopia and the fact is, the eye is in no way dysfunctional, but the brain is acting differently in reading the messages found in the vision. The messages are interpreted differently, and this concurs with my experience in seeing. I had no loss of function, but I saw things differently. The lazy eye has nothing to do with the eye which happens to be a functional organ but the difference occurs in the brain. The brain computes the image in a different form. The treatment of the 1950's was treating the development issue of the wrong organ when it needed to be treating a mental issue, thus it was treating the wrong area of disorder; the process of honing down a person's wide perspective amblyopia should have been done with a powerful magnification reduced in power gradually until I could read text on a page. 

I once tried a diamond-cutter's magnifying glass at 300X and read a book with my right eye for the first time in my life in my late 30s, and it was an astonishing experience to read a page in a book with that eye, to distinguish the words on the page. My brain saw something by force of focus and computed as precisely as the left eye would have done, and it was sudden shock to see the detail of a printed page with definite perception. 

Ever since the diamond-cutter glass experience at some drug dealer's house I have always concentrated on seeing the world through that eye in a dominant fashion during some point in the day. Anyway the pigeon toe ended up straight by age four or five. While I was fine with the right toe turned in to a slight degree, it straightened quickly because my older sister spent part of every day demanding I walk straighter (This sister had an eight-year career teaching developmentally disabled children at Glenrose Hospital; those poor kids must have learned a lot, at least about walking straight and interpreting importance from supercilious liars with homicidal dispositions). 

 The right flat foot grew an arch with a small amount of leverage, as I remember, obtained from a curious fuss on visits the family staged (suburban mother and clutch) to Levine's Shoes in Crestwood Shopping Centre beside Safeway. I got extra attention from the whole tribe on these trips, capricious bullshit because it was my mother and her daughters in control. 

Crestwood Shopping Centre was a nearby 1950s suburban strip mall that included Vic's Super Drugs and a big parking lot for big cars. A shopping centre arrived in Parkview a few years later, in about 1961. Laurier Heights had an slightly later blossoming. Valleyview Heights ran beside the North Saskatchewan River and into the eastern corner of Laurier Heights. 

The Crestwood colour was green. Parkview wore red, and Laurier wore blue in their community hockey league colours. I recall reading that Viet communities along the Red River delineated themselves likewise by colour hordings that ran beside the river. This is universal human use of colour to identify community. (My dad taught me the wheel of a car at age 7 in the Parkview shopping centre parking lot when it was freshly paved and the concrete bases for the light standards stood bare. 

A sand-coloured brick strip-mall went up in a summer, in the meantime, I remember wheeling straight for these bare light-standard bases a couple of times before my dad turned the wheel of the 1960 MGA, and I finally got the hang of it (and driving instructions ended for couple of years). First thing I learned to do is steer away from those concrete standards, not toward them. (Later I'll tell ya a story how I took a Volkswagon Beetle through its paces as a 16 year old. One day my dad woke me up from my usual drunken slumber on Sunday at noon, screaming at the top of his lungs, “How the hell am I supposed to drive that thing to work?” “It still runs,” I replied. 

By this time in it's life every fender had a severe dent, as did the front and back ends of the car. This time the major damage was on the right side and apparently too much even for me to look at, why I parked across the street, but it wasn't smoldering when I walked away from the mess in the early A.M..) I never got to wear shoes on the day we went to buy them, so the day of joy was always completely meaningless and frustrating to me as an infant child. I had to wait a couple days for the cookies to be installed in the soles of the shoes. 

Levine's Shoes would install cookies in my shoes, one shoe having an 'assisted' arch. (In my mid-40's I saw a birth certificate long concealed by my mother that showed my two feet. One of them prints, the right one, was in slight disagreement with the process of development. It wasn't a flipper. The arch was clearly flat.) "Oh we have to do both." Mother and father Levine retired and closed the business, and son Gary went into the mortgage business in Edmonton. To this day I barely take concern for my shoe, except that it be reasonably clean and always at hand. I never knew what hit me during these fucking escapades. 

It was Jew stuff and it was fucking obnoxious because Jew stuff is constantly obnoxious. There's a reason only 144,000 Jews get into heaven, and I suggest Jesus should be happy he's a Greek otherwise if he is indeed a Jew than he should worry whether he's going to be one of them.

 It is nevertheless true the testicle was surgically extracted at age 11 and I fully recall the experience of anesthesia, pain. and morphine. The procedure occurred in the Lions Gate Hospital on Lonsdale Avenue, North Vancouver. The family had moved to Vancouver for one and half years. The experience was extraordinarily invasive but I pulled through with my nuts and by age eleven I was a Celtic/Hebrew hybrid with all my parts,. Sure the right side was in disagreement with the left. I was a difficult diploid to assemble, yet it happened. There was apparently no stopping it. (I'll get to the Hebrew distinction but I am sorry, it's not the least bit interesting.) 

 I don't know how my dad felt about these developmental delays but later he became my best friend, starting around age four or five when he took me to the river valley with his hunting dogs and we barbequed some potatos wrapped in foil in an open fire. Up till those days the man's best friends were his hunting dogs, Jipper (a female black lab), Jerry (a male English pointer that was completely insane), and a couple of other hounds about half as crazy as Jerry. 

When I was born it was a difficult time for my dad putting his life together. My dad was born Donald Neil McColl, in 1926, in the Edmonton General Hospital on Jasper Avenue (same place he died 74 years later). His youth was spent in the Great Depression, which didn't affect him terribly. Everybody had to scrape for a living, but my dad's family was able to supply the guys riding rails with soup over a back fence. 

 My dad served as an Ordinary Seaman aboard the only Canadian Man O'War to see action in the Pacific Theatre of World War Two. Action she did see in the Battle of Okinawa where the HMCS Uganda fought at the front of the British American Task Force because the HMCS Uganda arrived late from England with state-of-the-art radar equipment (invented in England). 

 My dad was too young to man-the-guns on a warship (he joined the navy because they permitted 17 year olds to volunteer and he wanted in before the war ended), but he had the best eyes for spotting so my dad was trained to spot Japanese aircraft for two weeks in Sydney, Australia upon the ship's arrival from India. When they sailed into battle at Okinawa, my dad's job was to spot Japanese aircraft. Turned out no problem spotting aircraft. He stood on the bridge reporting to Commander Pullen and Captain Mainguy, The Japanese flew 3,700 Kamikaze sorties against the Allies.

"Here comes another 50, sirs, flying into ships again, sirs." He recounted one episode where the Japanese aircraft flew past the bridge so close that my dad saw the whites of the guy's eyes before he made a direct hit on an American ship behind the Uganda. Apparently the two crews had shared a beer tent on some tiny island the night before. Dad's piercing blue eyes did the spotting during 70 days of battle.

 It was a harrowing experience in his life and must left him with severe post-traumatic stress disorder. He was a cool dude, my dad. He came back from the war and got drunk for six years, met my mother, married her, had my sister, sobered up to save his marriage by joining the AA movement then-growing like a Secret Society, and I came along; then they had two more kids. My dad's father was Mack Bentley 'Red' McColl. 

My grandfather was named Mack in honour of his first brother, 'Mac' who was the eldest son. What happened was Malcolm, aka, Mac, was killed in the Boer War in 1897 before Mack was born in 1899 in the Ottawa Valley town of Maxville, Ontario. The prematurely deceased Malcolm had the sobriquet 'Mac' as an Ottawa Valley Scottish tradition to keep Mac in the name. 

(The 'a' had been removed from MacColl by Irish immigration authorities ruling the Ottawa Valley, which removal of the proper Highland Scot appendage with the Orange Order abbreviated appendage happened upon the MacColls arrival in the 1840s. I saw the Scottish emigration papers with MacColl spelled out when I stopped at Maxville, Ontario, and looked in the phone book in the town about 100 kilometres south of Ottawa, finding McColl Homestead Historic Site and a distant relative. The widow of Reverend Edward McColl invited me into the house for a couple of days and showed me immigration papers and a few hundred other insights.) 

 Red's family were Scottish Highlanders from the Isle of Mull of the Inner Hebrides Islands (the original family name issues from nearby Isle of Coll.) This particular group of Presbyterians from the MacLean clan emigrated during the Scottish Clearances of the early 1840s and established a rock of Iona of the Presbyterian faith in the Ottawa Valley opposite everybody. 

Today's British Royal Family has a Princess who is a Duart and MacLean from Coll married to Prince Edward, so part of my Scottish Hebrides Highland side is married into the present day Royal Family of Great Britain and the Commonwealth). 

 Mack Bentley McColl was lifelong known as Red. Red followed two older brothers who had left the Ottawa Valley and established Collholme, Alberta, near Claresholm, and when Red moved west in his youth he then joined the Canadian Army of the First World War. My grandfather joined the Canadian Army in World War One against the wishes of his mother who had successfully petitioned the Prime Minister to keep him out. She had lost two of her 13 sons already in this war, and the previous one, Red's namesake, in the Boer War. 

Red joined anyway and fought at Vimy Ridge for the Medicine Hat 175 Battalion. During The Great War my grandfather rose in rank from private to captain of a machine gun squadron. I saw a picture of him standing, cigarette-in-hand while his six-man gun crew sat in a half-circle around the heavy machine gun staring into the camera. Whatever those guys saw was showing in their eyes but you couldn't say what it was, except you don't want to go there in your own head. Attrition in the ranks enabled Red's rapid ascent. 

 (I learned none of this from the immediate source at my disposal, my grandmother and wife of Red's to the end of his life, nor from Red's children. My dad died lying, "Red was nothing but a buck private in World War One," a crudely dismissive lie.) Red returned to Canada replete with battle honours and what had to be a full blown case of Post Traumatic Stress Disorder to study at Olds Agriculture College and the University of Alberta and became alumni of both schools. 

He married my grandmother in Edmonton, Alberta, in 1925. He was a Mason. He became an alderman of Edmonton. My grandfather was never part of my life because he died the year I was born. My grandparents on my mother's side were deceased before I was born. The only grandparent I had in life was my dad's mother who married Red. She was Nanna and she read to me as a child once I procured a handful of words. She read literature like Robert Service, Robert Louis Stevenson, and Rudyard Kipling and more of the writing so popular with adults in the first half of the 20th century. She had been a nurse who worked at a tuberculosis sanatorium at Redwater, Alberta, in the early 1920s, before she met my grandfather. 

My grandmother married that man Red rather late in her life, age 30 (when he was 28). Nanna regarded the subject of McColls to be something held incommunicado. A formidable resource was completely closed (the only source of a generation of knowledge) to me and everybody else. She was a Nova Scotian Russell who couldn't speak about the Ottawa Valley McColls except with an occasional derisive comment about Grannie Vore (her husbands grandmother) who Nanna portrayed as a Presbyterian religious zealot. 

It wasn't Nanna's fault. She lived with her own spectacular case of Post Traumatic Stress Disorder and hers was a truly definitive one. Nanna was born Marjorie Louise Russell in 1897 in the city of Dartmouth, N.S., opposite the City of Halifax. She was a member of a United Empire Loyalist clan from Nova Scotia where she enjoyed her formative years. 

My grandmother's branch of the Russells were early Scottish-American who sailed away from Boston when the War of Independence ended. They broke on the side of the Empire (the 'Red Coats' -- and don't think she didn't despise pejorative.) Nanna recounted making several return train trips from Edmonton to Halifax during her childhood and early teenage life. The travels ended when suddenly there was no one to return to (or anything left of them except a couple of street names). 

Nanna mentioned one survivor of the Halifax Harbour Explosion named Benjamin Russell who probably had been her sole remaining uncle. Wikipedia: Benjamin Russell (January 10, 1849 – September 20, 1935) was a Canadian lawyer, professor of law, judge, and politician in the province of Nova Scotia. Born in Dartmouth, Nova Scotia, the son of N. Russell, Russell was educated at the Halifax Grammar School and at Mount Allison College. A lawyer, he was also a Professor of the Law of Contracts in Dalhousie University. He was also a Reporter to the Supreme Court and a legal adviser of the Legislative Council of Nova Scotia. 

He was first elected to the Canadian House of Commons for the electoral district of Halifax in the 1896 general election. A Liberal, he was re-elected in the 1900 election for the electoral district of Hants. In 1904 he was appointed a puisne judge of the Nova Scotia Supreme Court. He served until his death in 1935. In 1932, his autobiography was published called Autobiography of Benjamin Russell (Halifax: Royal Print and Litho Ltd.). 

 Benjamin Russell's autobiography is reference material to historians about the Halifax Harbour Explosion. I haven't read it. I'm not allowed. It's protocol. 

The Scottish Russells have a peculiar lineage that indicates French-Jewish ancestry, which puts me deeper in Judaism than I was aware for most of my life. Some of these Russells would be propagating the way of the Lost Tribes by elevating genetic progeny via the matrilineal line (cropping half-breed males as social deviations while elevating females). 

Since not every goyim father would care to enter these arrangements and some might object to marrying inter-racially, the Jewish wives step into these marriages by stealth. The oddest thing is this. Despite genetics and family history, I cannot for the life of me hold on to a dime, or scintilla of power. My direct ancestors in one family established Dalhousie Law School and wrote the tort law that would govern commercial activities in Canada for a century. 

How much more astonishing is my penury and paucity once it is brought to light that I am Jewish in a larger percentage than many of the Jews I know? Consider my lineage and you might be convinced of the 'occasional' suggestion made by my mother that I am some kind of idiot. (Not a single word of truth came out of her mouth about me. She passed this principality onto her oldest daughter who shall remain nameless in this manuscript because she's a murderous fucking psychotic. You can identify her if you try. Don't do it. 

Life is too short without crossing her path. And I write this in self-defense.) Broke or not (for reasons that involve immense larceny, horrific double-dealing, unbridled back-stabbing, death-defying attempts at murder by aforementioned powers whose will is barely exceeded by the will of the creator, and subsequent costly recoveries and more ensuing larcenies; and here is where Jesus steps back yet again, he who steps up demanding everything we have to follow him, then steps back while smashing blows are delivered to eliminate assets -- don't forget he's a self-declared thief-in-the-night, or at minimal, a close accomplice, keeping '6' while Satan slithers in to incite the carnality), and all accusations of idiocy aside, I am able to recount details of the past on behalf of the Russell clan. 

This knowledge did not by any means come at the suggestion of shattered minds that could not or would not put together complete sentences about the facts. When the Halifax harbour explosion occurred in 1917 the core of the Russell family was blown apart along with 9,000 other Haligonian casualties. It so devastated Nanna that she didn't give her own kids the story. The fact the Russells crossed the harbor every morning on their way to practice law, teach law, and write law in Halifax put these kith and kin on the ferries in the middle of the explosion at the moment of truth, 9 A.M., December 6, 1917. One assumes it was times to wipe out the ruling class which had sprung from the ruins of Acadian society it brutally supplanted.

Interesting to note, it was a French munitions ship that blew up Halifax, and the Russells were ex-patriot American Scots who came out of French Jewry. The Russells, were, furthermore at the front of the polity that swept French Canada's Acadian power from large parts of Nova Scotia. 

 My grandmother witnessed this horrific personal event from afar, in Edmonton, the end of all her friends and family, then watched it make a direct hit at home when her father who had migrated west was destroyed. Her father was among the first judges appointed in the new province of Alberta. With the Russell family blown apart this one went completely alcoholic, and ultimately berserk. Into a dense fog of alcoholism went his mind, never a moment without being completely and utterly smashed. The story goes that he was seized by mental hospital authorities in the town of Vegreville, Alberta. 

Here was a soddenly drunk circuit judge weaving down main street brandishing a shotgun demanding everybody speak English in an English-speaking country, but doing it on main street in an ethnic Ukrainian community, Ukrainian to this day. He could no longer be what he was or had been and it was on this site that his mind was completely lost and he was taken away to die in Ponoka Mental Institute, a bitter shame to this daughter, a bitter loss to another named Mary, their broken-hearted father slumping out of life with a wet brain (corsicoffs syndrome). 

 Nanna never mentioned an explosion of second-only-to-Hiroshima-size happening to her family nor did she mention Halifax and harbour and explosion in the same sentence. My grandmother never mentioned her father, not once, and I don't know his first name as a result, but some details escaped her lack of disclosure. 

She mentioned people like Benjamin Russell, but disclosed nothing, and it would take a detective to reconstruct the circuitous and obscure but imminently logical pathway down which I came. And within the compound of her enclosure my grandmother never mentioned the husband by which she had three children. And here's why. 

 When World War Two broke out my grandfather Mack Bentley 'Red' McColl re-commissioned and was made a Major but would not be serving overseas. This pissed him off because he wanted to serve in a war brigade whereas he was appointed Major of a training facility in Wetaskiwin, Alberta. So he took a mistress and spent the World War Two fucking her in a cabin at Ma Me O Beach, on Pigeon Lake, due west of Wetaskiwin. (After he was gone my grandmother used to take me and my older sister out to this cabin in the backseat of her Austin Minor.) 

Behaving in this fashion, grousing endlessly about the small potatoes of the event compared to The Great War, all proved dilatory to both marriage and rank (which was reduced after the war, then the trustworthy Masonic Order erased most of the record of this man to follow his rank, and my Nanna lived to erase the rest). Red ended up buried a captain in a military gravesite in the far west end of Edmonton. I stumbled upon the grave myself one autumn afternoon when I was strolling along the row of stones and saw my first name carved in one of them. (No I didn't catch my breath. I live well with surprises.) 

As children we were never taken to this grave, and I recall mention of it once. My grandmother never forgave my (unknown) grandfather Red's peccadilloes and she twisted her anger into quiet thing by never speaking a word to her grandchildren about her deceased husband (which is a grinding assault when you think of it, real trench warfare). She was equally angry at her father for his complete mental breakdown, it would appear, for she never mentioned him either (but somebody took her to Peggy's Cove in a horse and buggy when she was a kid). 

Instead of expressing anger she never had a complete sentence to say about either of them, as if they never existed in complete form, as if there wasn't enough to describe, or they were bad amnesiac archetypes. I learned nothing about these significant people from my grandmother. I had to research. My father wasn't able to talk about his father and grandfather much either but I got a few paragraphs out of him, a lot of bitterness and otherwise repressed feelings. 

I cannot understand the chilling way Nanna dealt with her pain, however today I suspect foul play. I suspect she poisoned him with the savvy a nurse would have.

 I dealt with mine equally poorly, I didn't understand mine either until I found another way, which is to blame the son of a bitch who claims to be son of the lunk who hung around my basement. 

 My Dad and his younger brother Stuart inherited McColl Insurance Agency after my grandfather died. Red's picture hung on the wall in the office, a large portrait, real old school, a large-sized stain for my grandmother to scoawl at in the office of the business she  retained ownership of, her dead husband's.. My dad's brother Uncle Stu married a woman named Winifred, Winnie, and they raised a family of two boys and a girl on the southside of Edmonton.

 My dad had a sister, Aunt Joan, and she married a Norwegian named Arthur Rebnord, and they had four kids, one adopted. All these are well-adjusted contributing members to society. My mother had a different family background. She was born Marjorie Alice Butterworth in Edmonton on Oct. 21, 1929 at the University Hospital. She had nothing to say, certainly not out loud. She might whisper a confession about her mother being from Germany, which meant having to grown up during a time when Germans were atrocious enemies of Canadians. (So ridiculous since Canada is practically all immigrant, from the whole world, but primarily Europe in the 19th and early 20th centuries.)

Then later in years she disclosed further to the German history (on her mother's side) that she had a family name of Dicksohn. It is this line that distinguishes her descendants as being of the chosen people. This would be my family branch that is Jewish. (My friend and former employer David Moser, "Choose somebody else," he'd say to God in my basement, issued a challenge when I told him my mother was Ashkenazi. "Oh yeah? What was her mother's last name?" Dicksohn, I replied, and spelled it, and he kvetched with the pool cue. 

That's right. I'm a Jew, same as you without the money. Turns out my enemies were the cause of this.) My mother's sister, Aunt Jean can explain it to anybody but me (afflicted as she is with the same distortion about my development). 

I'll let Wikipedia do it: "Traditional Jewish law or Halacha considers a person who has undergone a formal religious conversion to be a Jew, but it also defines who is a Jew by ancestry, following the maternal lineage, irrespective of belief. According to Halacha, membership in a synagogue or participation in a local Jewish community   does not alone make one a Jew. Likewise a person who disassociates themselves from the Jewish community is still considered to be Jewish by Halachic standards.

 Outside the State of Israel, no central authority or ruling body in Judaism determines who is a Jew. More religiously liberal and secular Jews have different approaches to accepting the Jewish heritage." People have no say in their racial make-up and no decisions to make in this regard. My Jewish mother came by her belief in the anathema of talking about God down a survivor's path. 

I estimate by her thumbnail historical sketches that she came from a great grandmother who landed in Fort Edmonton in the late 1880s as part of a German emigration. The loss of Judaism and all religious affinity went something like this: the family probably tried to convert to a Christian religion in Germany sometime in the mid-1800s but this failed when incontrovertible conditions imposed by racial enmities held fast and got worse, so they continued on the margins of German society. Suddenly they fled a severe pogrom that broke out in 1880, and they landed in Fort Edmonton, and joined the fringes in Strathcona where German immigrants settled.

 North West Territory with no religion to settle with Germans on the south side of the North Saskatchewan River, about 50 blocks south of the present day Strathcona rail station. At the time it was the Edmonton Trail, also known as the Calgary Trail when going the other direction. 

There may have been a rail-line in place from Calgary by the time they arrived. Being comely women they continued the German Ashkenazi Jewish woman's method of propagation, which is to marry in quiet assimilation and preserve daughters while annihilating the sons. Is it genetic 'disposition' that informed this 'assimilated' Ashkenazi mother of a necessity to crop the deviation, or does a wider Jewish community conspire in deliver these instructions? 

Is annihilation executed by a confederacy led by the mother? How ever racial propagation transpires with these Ashkenazis (as if it's a yin and yang opposite to the Chinese preference for male offspring) they made themselves one with a nascent Western Canadian cultural mosaic in a period of history when an 'ultimate pogrom' was exacted upon the Jews. 

My mother was born between wars and (since she didn't know how) she never discussed higher purposes or beings. Survivor-bent archetype instructions must have been explicit on what to say about religion: NOTHING. Atheism had to be the instruction from a post-traumatic stress disordered Ashkenazi Jewish grandmother who lived long enough to see the godsend of a granddaughter but died in time to avoid the terrible disappointment. My mother was maternally something, and she once said, "Your great-grandmother was the first (something-or-other) to be married in Fort Edmonton. 

("What was that? I didn't get that. First what to be married in Fort Edmonton?" No answer to accompany the scornful gaze.) My Aunt Jean was my mother's older sister who married Dr. Mel Little and they adopted two children as toddlers and these cousins, Scott and Denise, turned out to be contributing members of society. Uncle Mel practiced surgical medicine in Edmonton and then Saskatchewan, birthplace of socialized medicine, and Uncle Mel worked hard against socialized medicine in the heart of the birth of it, Weyburn, Saskatchewan, home of the Greatest Canadian, Tommy Douglas. 

It was also home to a mental institution that saw a lot of experimentation in electroshock therapy and LSD research. The following quote comes from a CBC article on the facility, which says, "The Weyburn Mental Hospital opened in 1921 and quickly became one of Canada's most notorious psychiatric institutions. It was the site of lobotomies, electric shock therapy, and some of Canada's controversial LSD experiments. It was here that Dr. Humphrey Osmond coined the word 'psychedelic.'" 

It may be superfluous but I'm gonna say it anyway. Psychiatrists don't do lobotomies because psychiatrists are not medical doctors. Surgeons do lobotomies prescribed by psychiatrists. The Littles moved back to Edmonton for a spell in 1963 (when socialized medicine dawned in Saskatchewan) then to the city of Prince George, B.C. (my all-time favorite city). 

Uncle Mel was an avid fly fisherman so everyone agreed the move to Prince George was a good fit. As a married couple in their post-Weyburn lives they had a few introspective moments at the hands of a vengeful NDP government, and unfortunately Uncle Mel died of cancer early in his retirement on the west coast, in the city of Nanaimo. My Aunt Jean lives on in Prince George. I will tell you a death-defying story about a troll who sold my Aunt Jean a yellow 1963 Studebaker Lark convertible, and years later came back for her life. 

I met this troll during the years when I dwelt (and sank deep into the earth) in Regina, Saskatchewan. It so happened that one day I stumbled on the bridge of this troll. (The more astute observers of Canadiana might ask, bridge over what? Good question. It was disguised as a used car lot.) At first I noticed the signage at the front of the used car lot standing over a row of rust buckets, the sign a rather frightful composition of amalgamated or co-mingling commercial designs. 

This affront to sensibility was standing beside Toronto, uh, Street. The bridge over nothing leading to nowhere was a secret construction on a commercial lot in Regina, on Toronto Street, near Victoria Avenue. (Yes, the address was part of the disguise). The "sales office" (= toll booth) of the "used car lot" (= bridge) contained four close walls covered in a briny amber stain of nicotine, windows included, a product of the troll's endless smoking of cigars. 

The troll informed during our brief conversation that he once had a Studebaker dealership on this lot. It answered a query about the pink or salmon (and rust) coloured Stude dinosaur automoble fronting a three-car row of wreckage under the sign(s). I remarked about a coincidence that my Aunt Jean once lived near Regina at the time and bought a yellow convertible Studebaker. "I dropped Studebaker in 1963." Well, I replied, it was a 1963 model but knowing Aunt Jean she probably bought one of the first off the line in 1962. 

She'd want one with the newest new car smell. The troll grew uncomfortable with this line of reason, so I wondered aloud how the strange composition of signs came about, and asked if he considered it safe. (Anybody situated in Regina will abruptly ask questions related to wind.) Then I asked why the door on the side of the attached garage was so short. He had no reply. Then I said I understood the coat of nicotine on the ceiling, and on his hat, but how fucking long had that amber-coated light bulb been burning? In pointing this out I may have ended the conversation, and, call me crazy, spurred a subsequent attack on my Aunt Jean. I learned by long distance phone call that she nearly drowned that week in a canoe-flipping accident on a frigid lake in northern B.C. and it was Uncle Mel's heroism that saved his wife. 

All I can say in my defense is that I didn't buy a fucking car from a troll. What kind of deal did she cut? Paternally my mother was a Butterworth and my grandfather Edward was a salesman born in Edmonton with English family roots. My mother had two brothers, Harvey (who married Carol briefly, divorced, then married Helen) and Stuart (who had an affair with Carol, then married a woman whose name escapes me but my older sister became friends with one of Stuart's daughters, a Butterworth cousin named Jennifer who moved to London, England). My grandfather Edward gave me nothing to learn from but a middle name. 

My mother gave minute details, for instance, "He died before you were born." In his lifetime Edward sold a line of prepared foods in western Canada. His other achievement, to hear my mother tell it, was a period in the Great Depression when he ran a hotel in Riley, Alberta, and according to her Ashkenazi perspective of her Goyim father, here was a man who did nothing but drink in the bar like a problem customer, making poor Alice Butterworth do all the heavy lifting. Uncle Harvey was a railroad worker for CN Rail who was in the merchant marine in World War Two, "Big fuckin' deal. . . . ," my father said. (Merchant marines are part of the unique tactics required to run a world-wide Military-Industrial Complex. The safety of specific ships is guaranteed by all sides, like ships carrying patented Hollerith cards and machines and replacement parts and technicians to run railroads carrying Jews to ovens.)

Uncle Harvey purchased an early import 1961 Volkswagon beetle for a long commute every day from Aunt Helen's familial mixed-farm held north of Lac St. Anne, town of Gunn. Harvey and Aunt Helen raised Edward (Ted) and Alicen on a farm with Helen's widowed father. Strangely enough it was at this farm where I first ate margarine. ("Harvey and Helen are saving money to buy their own home in the city.") I witnessed my first animal sacrifice when Helen's Scandinavian dad chopped the head off a chicken, which sprinted around noiselessly spurting blood in the barn. Around that time Uncle Harvey had a setback when he stumbled out of the tavern at the Grand Hotel in downtown Edmonton one night to drive home drunk and killed a man on the side of the highway. In those days serious accidents like that were misdemeanors on the highway of life except to the conscience, and perhaps somewhat to the wallet, though it was probably cheaper to kill the guy. I recollect this uncle sitting at his sister's kitchen table head buried in his arms over a terrible distress, and I learned a couple of years later this recondition was over the homicide. 

Uncle Harvey and his family gave up the farm and moved to Meadowlark in the west end of Edmonton around 1964. Uncle Stu, also a merchant marine, was a postman who died of a heart attack delivering the mail at age 55. I remember this Uncle Stu (as there were two, my dad's brother was also Stuart) as a decent man who looked well-adjusted to a hat and uniform, who might visit his sister for cups of coffee during the day with his ultimately red-cheeked face (flushed ruddy by a bad heart). We were living in Vancouver when this Uncle Stu died and I did not go to a funeral for him, and rarely did I see the Butterworth widow or cousins, Jennifer and Neal, except at one tortuous test of memory called a family reunion. I will give you an insight discerned from reading the holy bible. I will probably tear the book to shreds later (writ as it were by a pack of liars and thieves) but here: Parables are important because they say God speaks in parables (statements containing ideas running parallel or ahead or behind, found elsewhere in the book. The first parable is at the front, where God says to the Serpent in Genesis 3:14, "On your belly ye shall go and dust ye shall eat all the days of your life." Then in Genesis 3:19, five paragraphs later, God turns to Adam, and says, "Hey, Adam, you're the dust." Oh it's there. Nobody sees it just paragraphs away, 'The Serpent consumes Adam,' which seems to be elementary human conduct considering the number, frequency, and size of atrocities. 

Right in the first part of the first book is probably the most important parable of all, but I don't recall anyone having seen it. I read the Holy Bible four times in the years 1983 through 1987 and more than once backwards. The message changes when you read it backwards. . . . Extraordinary value is created in dust from God's edicts to Serpent and Adam concerning Serpent, dust, and Adam (the dust). It puts a price on every human head and the Serpent goes to great lengths by God's edict to produce a valuable commodity, because Adam's dust is Serpent food, so stated in the first parable. A belly full of dust satisfies the Serpent and an empty belly leaves the Serpent hungry. (This hunger too shall pass, first, Serpent needs Adam's dust.) Returning to God in my basement, he was there six months and gone before I could register a clear picture conscious memory of him. Was he just there to make an impression on me or did he have other interests?

 Would these come sooner or later? I stared at him with my good eye, ignoring him with my lazy eye (or looking so deep that even I could not see), and he stared back with a penetrating gaze, searching for the reason why I kept scrambling down stairs to invade his space and sit across from his cot in the basement laundry room in the corner under the kitchen floor. When God was gone a new level of awareness emerged. First thing I knew my older sister was employing a lot of amusing forms of girlish intimidation to hold my attention. When God left she took over the basement and dragged me down to play endless rounds of house in a tiny alcove under the stairs a few feet from the corner that God used to occupy. She employed domineering 'play' upstairs in the bathtub. She would delight in peeing endlessly in my face when we shared the bath, and sharing the bath with my sister ended when my mother noticed the emerging miscreant behavior. It was impossible for my mom to know who was instigating it and who was enjoying it more, but the child's play ended. It was about when I had eye surgery. A distinctive archetype memory emerges of when I was taken for a visit to see a woman in a hospital (a place I had a feel for, being a recent veteran of hospitals), and whom I was later informed was my great-grandmother. She was the widow of the Russell who drank himself to death after the Halifax Harbour Explosion. 

I found myself sitting on her bed quite enjoying the moment, and I know why. She was showering me with affection and intense favor, so much so that a huge impression was made, the archetype kind, by this woman who was within a hair-breadth of death. How did I know she was dying? Within a few days of this fruitful visit I pestered my mother about making another with this woman, at which moment I was informed my great-grandmother was gone away and never coming back. She passed away. From what? From life, and we wouldn't be visiting her anymore. 

I'm sure the questions went on for a spell, and I know it didn't hit me until late in the night. I probably wandered around the main floor of the house in deep contemplation and was put to bed upstairs on the second floor, and there I lay wondering about this sudden end to visitations, finding only vexation. When knowing the lights had fallen in the house, next place I found myself was huddled in the broom closet on the main floor at the entrance to the kitchen. I was huddled in this closet weeping and rubbing my eyes about a notion that someone genetically predisposed to loving me, a significant part of my family tree (who was known from nothing but a couple of meetings in the archetype phase and another in the earliest sphere of memory) was dead. Dead, dead and gone. The realization of death caused a choking grief, an assault on the senses. This is a form of emotional capture Jung recognized as a distinct form of evolution.

 My mother burst into my private miasma like an explosion, pulling open the broom closet door and yelling, hysterically, "What the hell are you doing?" She said she was angry because I didn't know this woman. She asserted that she was taking the time to ensure I arrived where I belonged. I understood the matter of finding my way to bed as the least of her concerns. She was strenuously objecting to my feelings, and praying in the closet was anathema. Perhaps it was an archetype of hers but I suspect it is genetics. My mother was a descendant of Abraham's and while she never acknowledged this openly (my dad never knew it until we discussed it in his last decade) because she was busy hiding the fact she was a Jew, she had a life history that put her at odds with God. 

In my mother's world, most assuredly, those who live in basements are to be ignored as objects of derision. Here this. I can say God. I can say it over and over again. Jews can't spell the word. They have YHWH, they have G-D. Let me say this. If saying God puts you in turmoil, then by all means do not say it on my behalf. That was my mother's faith, gagging on the mention of the name of God. At this moment I would like to share a new delusion. Jesus Christ was neither Jew nor Nazarene (although he's nothing good, he's not nothing good to come out of Nazareth) and that is the reason Jews reject Jesus. They know he was a Gentile and had nothing to do with Jews except to put a ticking time bomb into Jewish statehood. The mission of Jesus was a simple one. 

Go to Jerusalem and stop Jewish banking from draining the national treasure of Greece and remove the centre of world commerce from Judea to Rome. Anybody capable of such a lofty world achievement should attain a high status. I suggest moving him down a notch to demigod. It was about this time when my eager desire to escape began to manifest. It may have accelerated after punishing lessons such as one learned early about use of the 'N' word. A neighbour was Oscar K., safety on the Edmonton Eskimos Professional Football Club of the Canadian Football League. He had a close friend in Rollie M., all-star running back with the Edmonton Eskimos. One balmy summer day I was on the curb mucking about with a pail and shovel trying to block the sewer or deconstruct something when a huge 1958 Cadillac convertible rolled by top down with two gay ladies, Mary-Ellen Kruger, behind the wheel, and wife of Rollie, a passenger. "Hey look!" I yelled in my three year old enthusiasm, "A nigger!" My sister lurking nearby bolted like somebody shot her in the back and was bee-lining for the back door screaming at the top of her lungs, "Mack said something bad!" I realized I was better off dead but I wasn't sure why. 

I recall standing on the curb shrinking where I stood, wondering where I got the word. Oh, yeah, I knew where. And I knew I used it correctly. I don't like to remember the spanking and heavy reinforcement delivered later in the evening by my father but it was a stinging lesson with a leather belt, unforgettable. I learned how bad the N word is when the civil rights movement was still a gleam in Martin Luther King's eye. The family lived a few blocks away in up-scale Valleyview and my three year old burst of enthusiasm made it hard for me to ever look Rollie in the eyes and say hello when he was hovering around his brood at the Parkview Community Hall skating rink. I never met his wife and I guess she wouldn't abide it. (In my years of adolescence I made sure Rollie Jr. always had a role to play in the world of shinny that I ruled over on the ice at Parkview. The ice surface was far too small for the guy. He belonged on a football field and that's where he excelled.) By this time I would be sitting in the company of family, including Nanna, mother and father, older sister, and by now my younger sister. I was about three and half or four years old. It would be a Sunday evening gathering of supper and the close company of loved ones. 

The afternoon's reading by Nanna would be forgotten. Dinner might have been unsavory, or it must have been a day of some kind of punishment, slow torture (from mother) or sharp retribution (from father). At this point when I would realize the situation was intolerable, I, like any child, made the incumbent threat of packing my belongings and leaving. I remember my grandmother, Nanna, taking the lead and offering to pack the suitcase to help get me on my way. I believe on one or two occasions I got halfway down the sidewalk before I quit the charade of going to live elswhere. I would realize the options and possibly how much I was giving up. My dad had a brand new 1958 Dodge station wagon parked right there. The house was a cozy one in a new neighbourhood. (One of the faint echoes of the archetype phase calls forth the amount of construction happening when I did nothing but gurgle, eat, vomit, and excrete in the daylight hours. The houses in the new subdivision of Parkview were still under construction, and to this day the sound of clattering hammers and skil saws is a soothing balm that practically puts me to sleep.

 I can lay my head down in the least likely places and sleep like a baby, on the job on construction sites for example, and in mine reject plants at full clatter, on the floor of an Indian carving studio filled with artists playing loud music, talking, laughing, smoking dope and tolerating the strange white man who comes around telling dreadful stories more traumatic than their own.) The immediate neighbours were two little girls, Laurie and Sherry. Laurie was the older and Sherry was an absolutely adorable little sylph. I couldn't get enough of her. We had a backyard adjoining the girls and a high fence at least six feet with horizontal rungs. I had no problem scrambling over the fence by the time I was three and a half years old, and there I'd land in the middle of these two, and they thought it was hilarious that I could manage this unbelievable feat. I'm sure I was angling to have some kind of bathtub action with Sherry. 

This would never come to a pass, of course, but anyway shortly thereafter Sherry and Laurie moved to another neighbourhood and we met periodically when my mother dragged her clutch of three kids in the back seat of her car, me in particular hanging over the front seat to inhale the pungent smell of cigarette smoke as we rode to the upscale neighbourhood of Duggan on the southside of the city where Sherry and Laurie now lived with mom and dad, Dorothy (known as Dot) and Stan (when Stan was our neighbour he owned an Austin Healey sports car that I used to hover around as a child, admiring the exquisite lines). Me and Sherry never came close to kindling the excitement and we drifted apart because of distance in space and time. It was an early lesson about the pangs of sexual desire and how they often fall short despite our heroic efforts. So here you have it. By the time I was four years old I was God's abandoned pal who comes honestly by a perversion for domineering girls who pee in my mouth who was drug-addled on nicotine (for both parents were pack-a-day smokers), and anesthesia (which in reality involves a lot of pure cocaine), and morphine (to kill the pain of what they are doing to me while I'm on cocaine), all of which leads to an obsession to escape.

In the enterprise of mind control there are a few fundamentals to understand. The endeavor calls forth an immense machinery to run the business of manipulating society from the top down. Society is human, by and large, and planning takes, well, a couple centuries in advance doesn't hurt. This is told to me by a Jesuit priest in a private interview in Halifax in 1985, and his exact words, were, "Well, Mack, the church thinks 100 years ahead of everybody else."

Naturally I add the 100 extra years he was concealing. Mind control is a business taken seriously by those in control and not very seriously by anybody else for reasons related to success of the endeavors. We are speaking of archetype-raising institutions confessing to 'out-thinking' everybody (no less than) 100 years. Thinking spans the spectrum, of course, medicine, science, finance, entertainment, literature, and let's not forget justice, and the seven deadly sins, deployment of.
The next reality of mind control is blowback. This comes from individuals who escape pre-destined roles. They blow assignments by not following pre-destined paths and overcome powerful notions fed into their skulls. Blowback incidents are from individuals who neither accept or reject roles but are naturally disposed to challenging the apparatchiks who are enfeebling society. Mind control of society is probably some kind of necessity, and certainly is to those running the program. The situation for society is dire and getting worse by design from directions taking humanity down the wrong path. It doesn't change by wishing mind control away.

Mind control is emanating from planners thinking 100 or 200 years ahead while individuals who become blowback incidents are struggling to deconstruct a plan for society, and distancing themselves from the apparatchiks of the mind control program. Be aware of two facilities in Saskatchewan, provincial mental hospitals, known as asylums, containing upwards of 4,000 patients each, shuttling through these places for seven decades. One of my relatives was a surgeon who lived and practiced in Weyburn and due to visits to my childhood home I heard about the business being conducted in Weyburn.

For example, my aunt, my mother's sister, discussed drug research including LSD as early as 1961. What happened in Weyburn and North Battleford was epic research into lobotomies, electroshock therapy, forced sterilizations of both genders, LSD (and a long list of other hallucinogenics that are barely discussed but alluded toby Hoffer), insulin shock therapy (discredited in the late 1950s, but not before a wealth of information was gleaned about insulin`s actions). These two asylums were hell to humans for seven decades. Guess what? They are lauded to this day for the work they did! Well, why not? Hoffer and Osmond were high achievers, and their acolytes, faithful followers, and their ancillary personnel had impeccable skills in severing brains inside skulls, so that is all so laudable. The work they did resonates deeply in society.
Lest we forget, they rained a generous portion of hell on the Cree, Sioux, and other First Nations people who happened to live in the province, very close indeed to these hospitals. But First Nation people were not alone this time. The rain of hell was upon the entire province. Within the walls was launched a program of mind control over the provincial population, at the peak of which emerged the MONARCH program, mind control over North America.

Look at the diet of North America. Look at the diabetes rates in and the epidemic of obesity across the population, then tell me they are not reproducing results found in insulin shock therapy. (Nobody was looking for a cure, but a small segment is looking for control.) The dietary expectations of so many are fulfilled wrapped in plastic and delivered out a window, fast. Insulin imbalances cause comas. How many of us are in a state of measured coma due to our diet?

By the mid-1950`s these institutions hit high gear moving to research of drugs to control minds. North America has been awash in drugs ever since these institutions engaged in concentrated research. Sixty years later you are prescribed something by a doctor if you`re not buying on the black market. No more electroshock therapy in Canada? Well, Hmm, that`s not counting Tasers, right? And, haven`t we been reading myth-like stories about electro-magnetic fields, microwaves, and other energy directing weapons (tools?) in the modern trade of mind control?

What if my own situation makes me an 'incidence' of blowback. There are people who make the alarms go off in 'mind control centre,' but these are not stories for movie buffs. Who would intend to cause them so much concern? I have no concern for their designs, which are essentially to have me do nothing, their plan for everyone. I have a pretty decent intellect that might have been some use to them, and therein lies the blowback. Every idea I come up with in my fairly decent mind is something to cause a rift in their schemes, short and long range. This must be upsetting to the mind control apparatchiks and I apologize for this profusely.
It is not and never was my intention to despoil Christian notions, church hierarchy, government primacy, least of all did I wish to offend, in particular the Jesuit Order (a phalanx of Mandarins running governments in all Industrialized Nations, developing, or disintegrating, they run them all 200 years ahead of my simple plans). These archetypes that control the minds of society are running our minds ragged because they are not smart enough to deal with a crop of healthy minds. They are challenged by the notion of dealing with a healthy mind in society, which turns the whole schmear to a level of corruption that if I were to explain, they'd roll around and kill me tonight. They do have me cornered, I can assure you.

The apparatchiks of mind control take grave offense when people take umbrage with their means, motives, and opportunities for controlling minds. We all know it would be a better world with a different agenda underway, but we all know that ain't gonna happen. Perhaps the mind control agenda will come apart someday and surely death is an instant release, but those powerful positions doing all the mind control manipulation, working that 200 year plan, they will make a mistake someday. It must be a chore because you gotta keep it up endlessly. You can't take a day off planning, because, don't forget blowback, and tomorrow's another day, and years do go by. And there's always another 200 years. And someday, somebody big on the inside is gonna wake up and say, whew, blowback is the way to go, because maybe it's time to end this charade.

Meanwhile, what is mind control, after all is said and done? Well, it's like putting people in cages. The way it appears to have evolved, chemical straight jackets hold the key, and operations are virtually universal. I don't think a corner of earth can escape the mind control program anymore because they have based the fundamentals on diet, and they have engineered the food for this purpose. The chemistry is basically designed to settle over the entire population through diet in the mainstream, and then deeper program elements permutate when they see the means, motive, and opportunity to take mental manipulation to another level.
The call for those deeper elements comes upon measurement of IQ. The mind control spectrum is created through census and IQ testing. Upon testing specializations will occur. Mind control begins with baseline diet, and those that get out of line on diet receive special treatment, which can be fairly exotic. It is this treatment that creates icons in society, everything from musicians, to serial killers (triggered by specific musicians), to movie stars, to stalkers, to raging alcoholics and drug addicts, to high achievers in sports, business, fine arts, the list goes on, because we have become a genetically altered species by the endeavors of mind control.
It's intriguing to me that the institution at the centre of mind control is a church that would rather have most of the population ignore the institution today, probably because they found much easier ways to enrich themselves than by tending to flocks filling collection plates once a week in the pews. It was planned a couple hundred years ago, and the pews haven't changed, so there's something nefarious in that I think.

I often think there's something nefarious in everything I think. I think I am a case of blowback, and if I was me, I would deal with me. I mean, I really would, but I wouldn't know where to start. They already tried as many lethal attacks as they can without becoming, frankly, exhausted. Don't forget, blowback has it's own department, and those people have become exhausted dealing with me and me alone. They rip off my leg, I don't die. They destroy my career, I create my own. Can't walk on prostheses? Invent my own for 99 cents and 50,000 Youtube hits later, 20 wearers and countless more denied the opportunity by fuckery condoned by health authorities (instructed by Jesuits), and I remain the sole advocate to dare say a word about the prosthesis. That's because a multi-billion dollar industry would disappear in the face of a dynamically function prosthesis that costs 99 cents to make. And mind control is nothing if not money.

Don't me get started about the apparatchiks and their obsession with feeding a hungry species of trees using a particular fertilizer in a methodology stolen from people far superior to themselves (but people nonetheless). When I start going down that track, oh, my, I can literally feel the darts.

This incidence of blowback argues against apparatchiks using an endemic fog to lower the common denominator of humanity and make everybody herd, as if it's an instinct. I suggest humans are quite the opposite. Humans are anything but a herd. Humans are unique individuals who would abide in an entirely different world and do so in an entirely different manner if their minds were not put in chemical straight jackets. If people were not poisoned by engineered infections, inflammations, disabling diseases, all designed to thrive in the diet dished out on the trance-inducement machine, people would behave differently and value different things and achieve different goals. They might actually have goals. They might achieve something extraordinary, and perhaps extraordinary would become mundane, and how awesome would that be? It would be a healthy kind of mundane, this world of extraordinary. Here we are struggling with a sickly mundane world when we could be participating in a utopia-building enterprise, but we're not, because nobody has an inkling of what utopia might be when their mind is locked in a chemical cage, or they're fighting their own disintegrating mind, body, and church-corrupted soul, or fattening themselves for use by the appartchiks.
This incidence of blowback has his own problems. I was born to be a thorn in their side, I've come to believe. I was a strange little boy. I had an extraordinary capacity to comprehend a story, and, equally, a physical capacity to tackle the most intense challenges without fear. Furthermore, I have a preternatural ability to surpass the limits of trauma. On the other hand, equally daunting to the mind control appartchiks, I have a life-long predilction for drugging myself into a state of practical stupidity. I delight in blowing my equilibrium to smithereens. I have no end of pleasure in breaking down barriers, blowing past boundaries, throwing caution to the wind, and disturbing appartachiks out of complacency. It got so bad they actually made a final solution to the problem, impeccably plotted, which must have been expensive because I paid a large sum in the end and I know it was half enough to cover their tracks

Speaking of money, that is practically the centre of the planning of mind control. All the planning around mind control focusses on money. It's not that it's a God thing, either. With money at the centre, and weakened minds crippled by an engineered diet, people are turned into herd animals. That means, dietary edicts have rendered humans subject to the sophistry of money in order to gain control over their minds. Diet and money are not the only tools, but they are the main tools, I think. There is more to money than meets the eye and I cannot explain everything that I know, not here, not tonight, and not because I am a coward. The fact is, the mystery behind money is too distracting, or plotting to deconstruct the mystery is too deep for us, or for the apparatchiks acting out the plot.

Money is a product of archetype institutions to make humans behave as they would not ordinarily. Controlling the flow of money, they control us. Money is the manager of human interaction scene-by-scene. That's the primary function of money.

With money and diet in place, even so, the apparatchiks are forced to think ahead to maintain control over the next 100 or 200 years. Thus apparatchiks move swiftly to straight-jacket intelligence in society. I am a throw-back to the dawn of this endeavor. I'm in at the level that grasps the gravitate of 200 years in advance planning boring into my skull. Read chapter one to understand how much I appreciate my friend, and pal, God, but around the time we met, mind control apparatchiks started working on me, at age two. It begins with an incidence of surgical trauma. At this stage money was involved, because means, motive, and opportunity appeared in medical advancements in surgical medicine to thrust me into the lab.

My mother was offered a low-cost surgery by a family friend. Cosmetic surgery corrected ambylobia (lazy eye), right one crossed inward. I know it was slight because my straight-shooting older sister told me so, and so does the sole picture of my pre-surgical gaze. My first conscious memory comes from trying to escape an oxygen tent, presumably stressing violently about sharp, searing pain. Memories literally flood in for subsequent years, and while they are great up to a point, suddenly they hit a brick wall at age seven.

They are vivid memories of ideas glowing in my brain. It's funny how these memories intersect to open carte blanche entrance to the deeper recesses of mind control, destination, blowback division. I could go into detail. Let's just say, every move I made met with direct resistance from, ultimately, society. I was praying in the closet when I was three years old. My mother hated me for doing that. I was translating Huckleberry Finn into street slang at age 4. The wife of Rollie Miles drove past in a convertible Cadillac visiting a neighbour, and I called out, "Hey, there's a nigger!" My sister nearby bolted to the house to tell my mother what I said. There was no morphine to assauge the attack on my ass ensuing from that open-to-interpretation slip-of-the-tongue. What was I thinking? I never should have asked my dad to read that book out loud. My fucking mistake.

I stole my older sister's bike the first day she went to school. She never saw it again, and I was way over the fence on that one. Time for kindergarten, Mack?
"Nope." Oh, I went. I was taken, so I went. So what if I left? So what if I left every time the door opened? Eventually they told my mom to stop bringing me. I dropped out. And I was kicked out. It was at this time that my mother began to call me the village idiot. She got away with it for awhile until somebody told her to stop, probably Nanna, who never saw me in that light and always favoured me because I carried a strong element of the Russell gene (this according to my Aunt Joan who told me I am the most Russell of the grandchildren). Is this a source of interest to me?

 I checked out the Russells of Boston because after the Halifax harbour explosion they're the majority of the Russells left, and it turns out Russell and Company was one of the largest opium traders in the world up until the Stupiefying Drugs Act of 1907. Then by the time I was nearing five, the last moments of the archetype building phase, my mother suggested to my father that I may be hanging around girls too much because one time to great hilarity my older sister put me in a dress and I didn't know enough to argue. He didn't worry, he was busy rebuilding his life with the 12 steps of Alcoholics Anonymous and organizing football in the city of Edmonton. Then a curious event refocused his attention. 

 A couple of boys from down the street came rolling along the sidewalk one postprandial summer evening in identical pedal cars approaching my front lawn. I sprinted across our lawn to the sidewalk to meet them in front of the neighbor's lawn, which now belonged to the Jacksons, an older couple with a their only child, a young man, still living at home. Suddenly the boy from the lead vehicle was on top of me and wrestling me to the grass. I was pinned and saw little point in the exercise. He wasn't punching or scratching. He was just pinning me and laughing. I was surprised to meet this action when I was merely going over to meet these two neighborhood boys who never before showed interest in this end of the street.

 The kid had a sister my older sister's age who came to her parties, so I believed I had an interest in getting to know these people. The boy named Tommy climbed off in triumph, his companion Bobby who left the neighborhood a couple years later I suppose, and I suppose humiliation was my feeling when I rose to sprint back to my house looking for sympathy. Instead, I ran back to my father who stood aghast on the front porch, another witness to my craven, wet-noodle-like squirming, where I was putting up no fight whatsoever. I faced a blushing warrior who was more than humiliated, he was enraged. This launched a two week training period in another corner of the basement. I was introduced to the fine art of street fighting by my father. I was punched, I punched back, it went on for days; every day after work when he got home from selling insurance he was coming home excited and I was put through the brutal paces. 

Two weeks later I was sitting in the living room picking my nose or some other such preoccupation when I heard the call. "Mack, he's coming down the street. Are you gonna get out there?" "Donald!" my mother screamed. I followed my dad and was told how to engage the contest. He stood in the backyard and gazed over the fence, standing on a lower rung of same style fence I climbed to see Sherry. Tommy was rounding the corner of one of the boulevards beyond normal range, waltzing past my yard in possession of the neighbourhood, albeit on the opposite side of the street. He was accompanied by another neighbourhood kid, who I learned later was Lennard. I sprinted out the back door across the street and caught them on the grass in front of a neighbour's house, stopping Tommy dead in his tracks, and Lennard wisely backed away. Tommy asked the normal question, "What's up?" He was friendly enough, and smiling, as was I, when I replied, "We're going to finish what you started a couple of weeks ago." Tommy dropped his bag of candy and then dropped into a half-crouch as I began pounding him with all the ferocity of an animal released from a cage. 

It went on for at least two or three minutes. Tommy put up a couple of moments of resistance, surprising reposts that caused me to redouble the fury, and Tommy and I didn't speak for several years after that, although we became friends at one point. It was always a tepid friendship based on the weirdness of that day. My dad received an indignant phone call from the boy's father. From that moment on I was as far from wearing skirts as Joe Frazier or Gordie Howe, so my dad was right, he didn't have to worry. The reader may be tempted to say, "Hey, enough about you. What the fuck was God doing in your basement when this book started?" 

I'll tell you. God loves football. He told me so when I met him the second time 22 years later and that's a whole other story, and, curiously, he made another amazing entrance to a social situation that left me shaking my head and totally glad to be going the other direction when he departed, but let me say, I later figure he was there for a good reason, to drink all the whisky before could get my hands on it, then he departed (but he returns in the chapter To Rest and Reincarnate, but at the second meeting, which will be known as the AA meeting, God was sitting in front of an ancient RCA TV watching sparkling lights but no discernible picture, and he had a white cane folded and clutched in one giant fist while he sat with nose to screen covering the play-by-play with intensive interest. 

Broadcasters were describing the action and I recollect it was my favorite team playing too. That would be anybody playing Saskatchewan. I asked him, "Can you see that?" "Of course," he replied, though the game was basically invisible. I shook my head and said, "You like football huh." "I love football," he replied. God came to live in my basement when I was two years old in order to play football. My dad was a football organizer in Edmonton, including director of the Edmonton Eskimos in the 1950s. In fact his dad had been a player on an early rendition of the Edmonton Eskimos of the 1920s. 

My dad couldn't play sports because he broke his neck in the basement of his house when he was a ten year old kid playing road hockey and he miraculously walked again after six months on a bed designed to keep him immobilized from neck to toe. It was a flipping bed. They rolled him over a few times a day. The doctor said he would never walk but by his own self-will my dad walked before the end of a year. But he was never allowed near participatory sports. Red put him on the back burner and wrote him out of everything important to a kid, hunting, fishing, footballing, the works. Frankly the whole experience left him dead from the neck up. (I never understood why my dad was such an illustrious failure at skating, born on the fringes of the Arctic.) 

He was never connected to the earth or the world in any particular way. He never told me about breaking the neck. His sister gave me the story quite late in his life. In my estimation he would have been a stellar athlete, a stellar scholar, a stellar politician, instead he lived with the incredible miracle of walking. He had major achievements, spectacular achievements. I'll talk about a few of them as we proceed. In the 1950s he was a football organizer in the city of Edmonton, and he organized a roster for a junior football club called the Edmonton Huskies. At this moment my dad confronted a winning tradition in a team called the Edmonton Wildcats and decided he needed to do something drastic to toughen up the Huskies.

 My dad phoned a chief of a reserve north of Edmonton and asked the man, “I wonder if by any chance you have a big boy on the reserve about age 18 to 20 who might like to play football? The chief replied, “Why yes I do.” Revelation chapter four verse two and three, John says: 2. And immediately I was in the Spirit: and, behold, a throne was set in heaven, and one sat on the throne. 3 And he that sat was to look upon like a jasper and a sardine stone Jasper definition jas·per (jas′pər), noun: a type of chert quartz that is usually reddish due to the presence of hematite; Sardine stone definition in Easton's Bible Dictionary, Sardine stone, (Rev. 4:3, R.V., "sardius;" Heb. 'odhem; LXX., Gr. sardion, from a root meaning "red"): a gem of a blood-red colour. It was called "sardius" because obtained from Sardis in Lydia. It is enumerated among the precious stones in the high priest's breastplate (Ex. 28:17; 39:10). It is our red carnelian. Plain English, which apparently writers of bibles cannot abide, tells the bible reader that God is a red man, making him an Indian of the American continents. The initial meeting with God was apparently because God wanted the opportunity to play his favorite game because he was hanging around an Indian Reservation north of Edmonton when my dad made the call. My dad told the chief, “Tell him he can come and live in my house and play for the Edmonton Huskies Junior Football Club.” God joined the Edmonton Huskies for a season and then he disappeared from the basement and then I met him again many years later in Saskatchewan

So I accumulated a bad record with my mom. And she transmuted the terrible details to her sister. the one with a surgeon husband working at Weyburn Mental Asylum cutting up social problems inside skulls, reshaping society with a scalpel. That's what sisters do, and I know it, because I have two.

. . . I was past toddling but still dealing with the formative issues. Things went reasonably well I estimate, although I recall pining a lot for this mother or that mother or any other mother. There was the lovely Missus Lindemoulder, and Missus Forester, and Missus Sutherland, and Missus Kruger and Missus Faulkner, and the list goes on. I had an intelligent older sister. She and me were chums. I was a pet project. I was something my mother couldn't deal with, on any level, ever, but I was something upon which my older sister had the totality of understanding, far superior to my parents. When she saw my situation, fears my mother held, detached curiosity of my father, she stepped in. She clarified the agenda. She said, this one's all mine. She said, he's nothing to fear, when you get him where you want him. It makes things so very interesting, because you cannot begin to understand what a powerful woman this is, to this day, by a will that defies description.

Once God left the basement she literally ruled my every moment until she departed for grade one. Unfettered by her domineering presence I was suddenly turned into a competitor, and this led to the next step in my disappearance into the mind control program. Let the torture begin. My brother came along, in 1960, and I was his pal.
He and I were sitting at the top of the stairs, 13 of them, thinly carpeted, and suddenly he was launched from the top, and lo and behold, my sister had emerged from her bedroom and punted him down the stairs and disappeared back into her bedroom. I was sitting at the top of the stairs knowing what hit him, and wondering what would hit me, because I knew it was gonna hit me. Oh, he was injured enough, had an enormous black eye. But I was guilty of attempted murder in the eyes of my mother. And this was the straw that broke the camel's back.

That summer we traveled to Weyburn in the Dodge station wagon, and I remember this trip well. I was playing in the back of the car with my two sisters when suddenly I was bouncing around the back like a basketball. My mother was run off the road on the highway in Saskatchewan, and she hit the shallow ditch on the prairie. Us kids got tossed around pretty bad, but we were all fine. We got to Weyburn and I remember wandering around the house and dealing somewhat with my mother's highway incident trauma. Then I remember nothing, barely anything at all for the next two years.

My memories of grade one were complete. My memories of grade two and three do not exist. In grade one, I had Missus Wilson, who lived around the corner and next door to the Fallows, on one side, and the Lawrences, on the other. In grade two, the name Missus E. Gadd rings a bell, but I do not remember anything except what she looked like, and in grade three I had Miss Mickey but all I remember is what she looked like (and one peculiar interaction that infuriated the woman; she was a plain, spinster-like woman in her 30s, longish dark hair and an olive complexion, rather severe in her manner and appearance. I recall walking directly to her desk and telling her, Miss Mickey, I think you are the most beautiful woman, and she scoffed and never spoke to me again.)

Memories flood back in grade four, but now I am the class clown and a continuous disruption to Miss Williams. I recall watching her legs rather obsessively, for she work dark brown silk stockings on a beautiful pair of legs, and I recall truly disliking the stockings, wishing they were not covering her legs. I remember an entire school year of staring at her legs and fucking up most of my assignments. Refusing to write limericks according to form, constantly going for laughs and getting them on occasion. Despite all the memory deficiencies I have today, in the day I managed to pass all subjects and advance to the next grade each year. Whereas I was an accelerated student in grade one, in grade two I was a ghost, in grade three I was an idiot, and in grade four I was a clown. By grade five I was a major disruption. But I held life in balance because I began playing hockey, and I soon developed into a very competitive player.

That's the story of how I was tortured in Weyburn, and how I entered another dimension of the mind control program. My sister knew it, and she also knew it wasn't right. She went on with her well-rounded life, and I began a life of playing sports (and privately reading anything I could get my hands on) and fucking up my life in ways beyond measure. The third meeting with God came when I was sent to Saskatchewan by the B IN L in February of 1983 (of course I didn't know this) or nothing else of his 'spoke in the wheel of Herod's chariot' that he was becoming. Instead I was myself. It's all in the chapter called To Rest and Reincarnate that includes more insights into how worked for the government of Saskatchewan and Grant Devine was the Premier. I left before that unfortunate second term.

I became infatuated with Cathy's breasts as well as with Alana's breasts, then I had the curious encounter with Becky's and so forth while I fell into a parade of fucks there and a few other insights that will be of close interest to true believers who won't get enough of this book. The contents of to Rest and Reincarnate will include Archie the most politically incorrect stereotype on earth, a born-again Christian Indian who managed to abstract nothing in my discourse about “Silver Birch” and the true beliefs of following Great Spirit, and I had no idea how he missed it, while he threw this one at me, “He's got you. In two weeks he will have you.” 

 Also in To Rest and Reincarnate I'll tell ya about Joe the Vampire, who had his crowd. And I'll tell ya about the Copper Kettle Restaurant, where I heard a Greek Restauranteur tell an attractive and bustling young waitress that her absolute need to get to a date that she promised she would keep. He replied, “Well do not make promises you cannot keep,” and told her to keep cleaning tables and serving the few customers in the eating side of his little plan. It was a coffee house on one side, and a total family restaurant with a bar inside one corner. From 1979 to 1985 I had no alcohol in my blood. I still had mycoplasma, and I smoked a lot of weed. It's good medicine for those suffering a bad diet. It's also good medicine for those who have a good diet. I remember. I drank in Regina for about a year then I went to Halifax and drank for four months and then I went back to Regina and drank for six months and then I stopped drinking for a couple years. 

 I did this a few times, long periods of sobrieity and catastrophic amounts of coffee, but drinking resumed in Regina's Copper Kettle, usually after leaving Michael's, in the former bank on the upper floor, a real skanky place that was supposed to be upper scale. During my stay, I learned nothing in Regina has scale. It gets scaled in the wind. I met Joe Frazier in Regina. Yep. Saw Black Crowes, Alice Cooper, Motorhead, Heart, and a few local performers who were delivering great nights of rock and roll. A bar owner on a cocaine blitz drew bands from Chicago and Toronto and Vancouver to play in his blues bar, at the Georgia Hotel, the same tavern where Randy told me I was presumed to be seen chasing the ghost of Uncle Ambrose, when the Cult of the Crow of To Rest and Reincarnate were still trying to implicate me into some real blood and guts human sacrifice scenarios. Funny story. 

Virgil was Randy's brother and Uncle Ambroses' nephew, and Virgil came to visit my new apartment one night with another guy, and they asked me if they could shoot up in the bathroom. They were doing T's and R's. These are known as Talwins and Ritalins, aka the poor man's heroin. I bumped into Virgil on the street. You'll know why later. But it was one of his last nights free before a 15 year sentence for murder. 

That is over now and Virgil has done his time, no doubt. But this night he came into my suite and ushered his pal into the bathroom. They both went in and came out in two minutes. The lights were beaming in their eyes. He said. Give me five minutes. We'll do it again and get outta here. I said Fine. Fill your boots Virgil. And they did and they went off and the police report read in court that Virgil and his friend buried a two by four with spikes in it into a guys head about ten to 14 times. And Virgil didn't argue. His little friend confessed. Other witnesses gave circumstantial corroboration. 

Cops had the lumber with nails in it for evidence. Blood on Virgil, and the little friend and the car, (outside drivers side.) Anyway I had nothing to do with it and To Rest and Reincarnate will explain why Virgil had to do it to the guy who ended up with all the holes in his head. My life in Regina went through many stages in 7 years in that city. I trust the story in Chapter To Rest and Reincarnate will be luminary enough. My B IN L totally fucked up that experience for me when he transplanted Bob Phelp into my meeting called the As It Is Group (No Shit Group), and he organized a cabal that ran me out. AA didn't give much room for free-thinking. My chain smoking and binge coffee drinking was acceptable behaviour. 

But my dope smoking, whoring, and endless partying was not acceptable behaviour. When you get on the wrong side by reputation in AA you go down like a burning plane. Meanwhile, everybody is chained to a coffee urn and serious misgivings about the ghastly behaviour in their past while continuing to be rotten assholes. AA gives them license to be rotten assholes. They have a million excuses in the Big Book. Why you can tell people what to think and when to think it about everything. It's one of the most thorough brain washings in history. It actually reconditions chronic alcoholics. That's fairly significant brain washing. How do you wash a completely washed out brain?

 Apparently you use a lot of coffee. I can honestly say I received more bad advice and followed some of it for a while in AA than anywhere else except advice I received from religious people, and we all get enough of that and it's all bad. I am speaking in extremes on the slippery down-slope of a half ball of pure cocaine. Therefore be it said that AA and religious people are not intending to give bad advice. That they give advice at all is an accident of being brain-washed. A preacher looked at me from the pulpit, in one of my rare forays into the theatre, and he preached, it seemed, to me, “We live with a plumb-line to God.” He railed on, “and this plumb-line to God is there for us to maintain our balance in His world.” It was a concentrated message about giving the devil his due. It was intriguing how it came to pass, in that a Catholic Priest delivered the message in a Presbyterian Church in a quiet Regina neighbourhood. He was visiting the pulpit as a replacement during summer which was an ecumenical arrangement with Cretin foghorns to get some time away from the flock. Call it quality time. Everybody needs some quality sin time. The more the merrier say the faeries. 

 "You got some will to live," says the B IN L interrupting one of my morphine moments post-attack. If it was me in a state of bliss he would indeed delight in the interruption. He engineered the murder attempt, and I followed a slippery source and then, lo and behold, within a few months, the mask comes off. I must truly say no one was more surprised than he (and me of course) that I survived the climax of his machinations, series of four attacks. It took a few more months to begin to piece it all together, as the Complex Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, which caused a complete dissociation from the event, began to loose a few facts. Interestingly, the B-n-L also contributed self-incriminating evidence, and it was made abundantly clear, that the judge jury and executioners were Heroditions.

 It began, the deconstruction of my destruction, when he came into my hospital room and the guard disappeared for a few minutes and the B IN L tells me, "You got some will to live," and I am looking at him with a blank face, the only kind morphine allows, and inside, You goofy cocksucker. You don't know a fucking thing about God, do you? And I'm thinking to myself, Funny, I don't either all of a sudden. But I know this fucker is feeling anxiety about making this visit. My sister ain't around. She never comes up to the hospital. I recall no visits from her and none from her three daughters. I worship this people, I love them with all my heart. 

I get nothing but the B IN L coming around to marvel in trepidation at what he failed to achieve. I know my death valley journey is underway during Christmas so I have no reason to expect a visit. The younger sister and her lovely youngest daughter made a visit when I was in the close-observation ward beside the nurses station on the fourth floor of the Royal Alexandra. That was it. Then I was in another recovery hospital from January 11 to April 1. I met a guy 92 years old, owned a big lumber company, had a new heart. He was actually feeling guilty about have a new heart. I told him to stop feeling so silly. Live. You gotta brand new heart there. I don't think I really meant it. I couldn't have cared less if anybody fucking lived. 

He was just another joke played on me to get my goat. Naturally anyone who has read this far would be wondering along with me, "Fuck, you're 93 years old. What are you expecting around the corner?" Then it might have occurred to me in my morphine daze that that old fucker's heart was in better shape than mine, the one the murderers tore apart, fucking unreal. And then it occurred to me, I wonder if they offered this guy a non-resuscitation order. He's only 93, why offer him a non-resuscitation order when he's in fucking drugged out state of mind, it may have happened when they had the fucking needle in my neck for 17 days. 

I don't remember when I had this bizarre encounter, but it was early in the crisis and I recall what I wrote in reply, "Why would I sign a non-resuscitation order when I'm only 48 years old?" Who the fuck is asking me such a question? I was somehow persona non visita during this long walk in the valley except the B IN L who brought a lot of books to the hospital. It was strange how nobody came to my room to visit, and on occasion I would have a visitor, and I was grateful. During this period I began the recovery by reading over 15 books, including the Poisonwood Bible, a biography of Winston Churchill's years in the Boer War, and many others. 

My brother-in-arms Jerry brought a book about CSIS written by a low echelon CSIS employee who went around conducting surveillance for little money. I never understood the point of the book, except this guy's willingness to admit he was doing a dirty job on a lot of people and getting very little reward from it. He was definitely getting the job done but it was for, like, $1400 a month. I felt embarrassed for my country. Now I realize it takes a lot of these people to gather the right intelligence to destroy people. So a lot of people get hired and in the end somebody dies. A human life is worth something, and it costs something to end one. It probably gets even messier when the target refuses to die because it has, ". . . some will to live." 

 I'll tell you later about Jerry. He is Metis. My country has been killing off this race for 100 years, and these people refuse to die. It gets embarrassing. Maybe something will pop up. Usually something like this: a severely oppressed group is handed a bunch of guns and told to go kill everybody in this neighbourhood, "and you'll feel like you got even." Then as soon as they run out of ammunition, "we'll come in an' kill ya." Jerry is a sound drinker. He can pour down a keg of beer and carry one home. Jerry and I did a lot of heavy drinking which started unexpectedly on my part after an incredible three-year assault on my sensibilities with inventing my artificial leg and then trying to make it a source of what it should be, immense wealth. Guess who pops on the scene with it once again. The machinist and the prosthetist and the scientists and the Masons and the Catholics and the Jews all lined up against it for some reason. 

That non-existent fake cunt Jew son of Satan had less opposition on the way up the fake and non-existent road to Calvary. But I'm sure there's even more to it. Nobody else had noticed that I didn't use the cue ball. Donna had been hanging back watching me because I told her about my experiment underway with Zoloft. After all, it's not an experiment without some observation. Mind control First a note about high school. I never finished. I took Grade 12 four times and dropped out every time (That's right, Grade 12. I sailed through 10 and 11 but stopped each time, and partied myself out of the Composite High School system on three occasions (and moved in with a young divorced single mom and fucked the girl and got coked up and crashed on a fourth 'vocational school' attempt). I wasn't stupid. I wasn't interested in anything but the girls. So by the time I took Grade 12 the fourth time, I could teach the whole class from memory.

 I never learned what was at the end of Grade 12. I went to university for a year, entering as a mature student and upon testing being dragooned into the system. Apparently I am smart enough to do the job. Within 52 weeks I had completed two years of a Canadian Studies degree, including a couple fourth year courses and 100, 200, and 300 level French, concluding the year with a six-week immersion and study in Trois Rivieres, Quebec. I passed everything upon sobering up for only three months after a six year drug and alcohol bender post-leg amputation that would kill the average useless eater. I did it by attending Alcoholics Anonymous, the aforementioned As It Is Group. I got into AA. I went to conventions. I got laid a lot and got to my thirteenth step with a few hot ladies in the 'program.' Later I started playing two fields, when I also found a Christian woman or two who was oozing to have sex with me. Have a funny tale about praying in public. 

It was my good fortune to join a foursome in golf that included Pastor John, youth pastor in the Baptist Church on Victoria Avenue and something or other downtown. It was the functional equivalent of a Masonic temple with a room for the bible thumpers. These are a thumping bunch. I was golfing with John, ya know, on my artificial leg. It was the functional equivalent of doing a joyous thing despite the sheer nightmare of ambulating on a door hinge and a shoe-horn. It was an age before man had learned to walk again, ya know, with my device. I'll tell you about my device. After I tell you how I ruined John's life. First a word about paranoia. You have to be paranoid in the DES because it's a fact nobody gives a shit. My B IN L has no presence on the internet. Do a google search and you come up with nothing, like he doesn't exist. 

The reason for this is simple. His sister is a top dog at CISCO SYSTEMS and she can erase people from the internet like they don't exist. She has the power to erase things like her evil cunt brother has the power to murder without consequences. He's like the leading member of Fight Club, you know, the first rule of Fight Club is there is no Fight Club. The first rule of serving the richest cocksucking Jews on Planet Earth is there are no rich cocksucking Jews ruling the earth and no consigliare cocksucking Orangeman sucking their circumcised dicks. Nympholepsy This is a chapter of my life that forms the spine of the book and the spine carries all the body's adornments. This is about the spirit of adornment. Adornment has two spirits. They meet. This is a way I met the female spirit based on the previous descriptions and the evolution of my relationships with women. I must confess this was a serious turn once made to nympholepsy. 

Once made it is Here it is. I don't know what I'm doing, and I don't care what I'm doing. I've been doing it a long time. What I do it just happens. Currently I am the captive of a long list of nymphs that I am known to frequent for transcendent bliss. The list is a story that starts in 1988. This capture or surrender occurred at the turn of the thought process from a reading of religious dogma to a writing of satirical revisionism. At this turn another drama unfolded. It was purely sexual in nature. It was based on a climactic period with a 19 year old in an apartment followed by a long sudden turn into complete solitude, prison-like in a small corner, so poverty stricken I couldn't afford a meal, cut-off from every corner for six weeks. I fucking near starved to death and it was pretty strange. Well let's follow the money trail that led to this incredibly dire consequence. I have to admit, it was definitely B IN L operation that was putting me in a tight corner. 

It was in the months before I turned to scribbling out a few stories for Western Report magazine and I was cut off of Unemployment Insurance and I was under suspension this made me ineligible for Social Assistance. I was on the verge of murder when the Unemployment Insurance Commission cut me off the dole. I phoned every number of the 100 numbers listed in the phone book under the blue pages of the phone book listing Unemployment Insurance office numbers. On the connection with every call, I launched into a five minute diatribe into the complete and utter injustice that occurred because some bureaucratic underling put my envelope in the Late Reception Box, which was automatic disqualification pending review that occurs in six weeks. I told every UI employee in Regina, including the mail clerk, and all the way to the Deputy Minister, that these were criminal acts and I was going to take these people to the Supreme Court and I was going to make every one on this list of calls, and I got their names, and I was making them defendants in the large claim I am making against the office of UI in Regina.

 Worse, I was going to phone everyday because I had access to a phone at the Disability Network, and two weeks later, four weeks ahead of schedule, I received $1200 dollars and bought at least $400 worth of unbelievable weed growing in Calgary and being sold on the corner of Randy Michelski's back lot for the usual $90 a quarter. No discounts. At this point I departed into a cloud of marijuana that was uninterrupted for six months. And that's when I met the nympths. After Julie, and with a surprise visit from the primary source of most of my sexual angst, Loring. Lori, and it turns out on a google search that Lori did change her name, legally, finally, in 2003. Anyway the girl with the most beautiful breasts ever conceived once the toys of the great Lohnny Wright, when she was a 12 and 13 and 14 year old student at Silkcrest Junior High School. This is the conception of my nympholepsy, these intoxicating breasts that stood for every idea of an orgasm that I could imagine and I was not alone and I can tell you the story the way I have figured it out. I have to tell it. It's part of my story. 

She is the little dervish involved up to and including her nose. It's as big as they get too. She special and ludicrous in everything and every way. She has a piece of art on-line, it's a really cushy high backrest chair with a long slinky velvet fleeced belt laying to the side. It's a work of art and so is Lori. Tell you what. Lori was a plant, an agent for the Herodians. They had this little treasure out of a list of adopted and fostered Jewish girls, and they found this one budding on the doorstep of their jewel the West End of the city. But a big piece of me had been removed by then, and I suspect the Herodotians in the carnal enterprise of July 26, 1974. I was a year and a bit into my amputation, and let me say it was a brutal awakening on so many fronts that the mind boggles. I speak of the surprise, but the surprise doesn't stop with the moment on the street. It goes on for many, many months, during which I bumped into Lori. It was a deep impression made with her fleshy flourish, but she oozed one thing, the ability to stop time and make the lust happen the instant she said yes. It was verbal. 

She made her introduction by ringing the doorbell at my parents house where I was in a state of recovery and I answered the door and she smiled and I had a 'ringer' when I saw what she was carrying on her chest. It was apparent, undeniable, indefatigable and certainly dirigible. I was to learn eventually that she had the most impressive mons veneris I ever ate. This was truly a bite of the apple. The taste and the exercise it gave my face was poetic. This girl had a delicious way of making you wack that nympha, and it is a glowing memory. Lori only ever confessed to one thing, “I think I am a nymphomaniac,” she told me in the prestage event of serious phoning with all that pausing, laughing, and dreaming in the air within 30 blocks. I don't know how she started it. It was her secret mission. I have constructed a resolution based on circumstantial evidence and the trail of deception that lies in all these pathways. I put the B IN L in charge. I think Lonny was still alive and fucking her brains out in the back room of the Wan Q toga night several times a week for the poker players and Lori was open to the whole field, this when she was sixteen. 

 Lori told me the nymphomania began when she “developed” and it needed no further explanation, well, perhaps a little more, “How old was that?” She smiled coyly, “Ten, I guess.” I'll never forget the understatement that came at a later date, two or three years after the night of deepest bliss, later, and resonates to this day when she was taking the level of enigma to a lethal stage, “They're just breasts.” Oh sure. Sure they are. They are a ten year sentence if I go too far, and something tells me so. But I can't say where that something is, and she was always very sure that somehow it was going to break. She moved it that way so perfectly so many times. 

Time after time. In her apartment, in her car, in my apartment, in the most unbelievably tantalizing ways, enticing me every way possible, and not delivering once, right up to the surprise visit to Regina when I was in the outer limits of the starvation period. I had to sustain, and somehow she showed up, and it was such a distant relativity in my convoluted mind that when she sat across the room in the shared apartment that was distinguished in memory of a copy of the Devil's Dictionary that I was reading, a composition of those Ambrose Bierce revisions of words of the English language, for example: Jesuit, equals, pederast. It was sitting on a table beside me and the cartoon character on the cover started doing devilish things with a sneer, and I said to myself, fuck, this is pretty good hashish. 

Anyway, here was Lori visiting for the last time we would ever meet in person, at least up till now, and I knew something was awry. I now know she was working for the same order that dumped me in the snow bank presumed dead as told in the previous chapter, the one about murder. She was a very horny girl, with reason to be, and a lot of powerful people fucked her. She was a princess of nymphomanias proportions and used by a high order that had taken the ground of Edmonton because, after all, they bought every inch of it. She was a toy of the high offices from the age of 14, and there was a couple years of training to precede the professional debut. Geez I guess I gotta tell it. 

Okay it goes like this. I was wearing a claptrap artificial leg and working at a city weekly selling ads and making a fortune. I had a new suite overlooking the river valley. I had a lot of great weed. I had a wonderful flourishing nympholepsy underway with several girls inhabiting the Paladium Club billiards hall and night club. I had a dynamite thing going with the office and was carrying a desk across the hall, and my femur snapped because the limb I was wearing didn't load properly and the pressure snapped the largest bone in the body. It wasn't a pure break. It was like a compression fracture only much worse, with no vascular wealth to rebuild the bone, no hope of rehabilitation because a staphylococcus infection began that ensued over the course of eight weeks into a massive bone infection. The stump swoll up to the stage where I would not take off the socket because I knew it would be fatal. I went to a doctor upon my sister's recommendation, Dr. Hari Singh Chana. He put me in a bone scan and he spotted the bone infection from previous experience observing the bone scan diagnosis in Great Britain. 

Hari was probably the only guy in western Canada that spotted the disease at the right moment to save my life. I was a dead man. I was hours away from death. And he was the only guy in western Canada who knew it. He was the right guy, to a point. Hari didn't go into the Royal Alexandra Hospital too often. But he wrangled me a bed in the darkest hour of the Ralph Klein cuts to health care in Alberta. I said to Hari, post synopsis interview, “I will go there immediately after I hobble over to a coffee shop and have a smoke and relax.” Hari replied, “It will be a fast cup of coffee, right?” I realized I was dead if I didn't listen, so I went right there. I rolled in and a resident doctor lady about 28 hard ridden years, asked me in an emergency observation ward, “What is the problem?” I had nothing to report except the agonizing pain of osteomyletis, in medical fact books the most agonizing pain a human being can experience, and I was in my ninth week of the same fucking agonizing pain and turning snarly at every interruption to my apomorphone zone of independent thinking, which had got me this far. I looked the wreck, no doubt, too, I'm almost sure I could have resembled a worn out junky so I probably looked like a serious case of drug abuse in spite of a healthy lifestyle at the time. Eight weeks of fighting this pain at that level had turned my brain in a seething mass of apomorphone, apomorphine, and dopamine. I was whack. She said, “I'll stick a needle in there and we'll check it out,” and I replied, “Oh yeah, do you have to?” And she said, “No,” when by law and decree the answer she was supposed to give was, “Yes.” She walked away, I landed on the fourth floor, laying in a hospital bed with a severely afflicted cancer of the everything victim, especially smell parts being infected and killing him and everything within inches if not metres of his body, and I'm laying next to him. GO figure. 

I have an infection probably more lethal than his, and if it gets it he dies twice as fast, plus, all the infections this guy has, and he had to have ten years worth of prostate and throat, and tickle your fancy cancer, he was old, he wanted to die so much, he makes me look like a shrinking violet. But really it's the smell. It's killing me. He doesn't fucking care except for two or three minutes an hour when he gets a whiff of his own stench of death, an hourly wake up call that says, yep you're still here you poor stinking bastard. They are keeping you alive to take care of other problems. It's laying next to you. The fuckers wouldn't do a thing to me for three days. I sat there completely stoned out of my head on morphine, reading the daily news, dying for a breath of fresh air, getting it during intermittent hours, then suddenly on day four I reached down and found a huge fist sized bloom that was literally moving like a giant killer squid for my balls. I asked the nurse to take me off the morphine. 

They said “What” And once more I said take me off it and they did. And I saw a level of pain that to this day I can taste the memory. It was pure unadulterated apomorphone and apomorphine and dopamine at levels that I can to this day attest are the most memorable mental disorder in all my life. More than the ripping off my leg experience, and all it's ensuing weirdness and endless machinations of pain, revision, agony, and miazma. A lot of dopamine, apomorphine, and apomorphone. Levels that I only matched a few other times, with either levels of pain or maximum sustainable doses of drugs, either opiates or cocaine. And by the way. I was taking NO pain killers besides regular smoking cannabis in the eight weeks preceding the emergency hospitalization and subsequent emergency surgery. 

And here's how that finally occurred, urgently. I withdrew from the morphine and instantly encountered a freakish amount of pain. It was staggering, and I realized I needed the morphine back because this was too much and I was going to die of the pain. So much pain, I fell in deep sympathy with the guy next to me, and I was wishing myself much deader than he was wishing himself, and he was agreeing with me, you know, in another dimension that these drugs take us, or these experiences, and this one was off the charts. I actually went out to the nurses desk after their first refusal to re-institute the morphine. They wouldn't. I took myself off it. 

Only a doctor can put me back on it. And lo and behold the resident doctor of four day previous stood behind the nurses desk, and heard me declare, “I don't care if you put me back on morphine. But in 15 minutes My stump is going to explode and it will coat all four walls of that fucking room that I've been sitting in for four days. And I want that fucking doctor to be there to see it when it's over,” and I screamed it. She heard it. I think she retired after what happened next. A Chinese doctor burst into the room to which I had retreated to sit on the bedside fuming and waiting for death to take me away. And he holds a giant needle. And he says, I'm gonna stick this in there and see what is growing.” I said, “Do you have to do that?” ver deliberately. 

He said, “I'll give you this tiny local anaesthetic first,” and a nurse handed him a small pin-like syringe and he poked me with it and all the pain melted away for 30 seconds, and he plunged in the 30 ml syringe and it exploded back into his palm and he said, out loud, Oh, this is bad, like, “Did I say that out loud?” He staggered back. The nurse even gasped. I looked at them both as if it was a relief to meet two people who weren't helpless idiots. He said, “You go into surgery at 7 AM,” and it was about 3 AM and I said, I can hardly wait. He sort of grinned. 

 I woke up the next day to two psychiatrists standing over my bed, well, not quite, while I am barely post anaesthetic, and they say, Nice to meet you. We are sorry about the misunderstanding about the seriousness of your condition. We understand why you were so angry at the nurses station last night. We still think you could benefit from trying some of the newer generation of Pyschotropics called SSRIs, which are Selective Serotin Uptake Inhibitors. I said fine. What's the dose. And they said, normally 25 mg, but we suggest you try 50 mg, and tell us if it feel like it's too much, but it will calm you down. You won't get so angry, even though, you know, you had every reason to destroy that doctor's career. 

We didn't really like her much anyway. The full report was returned to the B IN L and my dragon breathing sister at the same immensely consequential moment as my sister's long lost illegitimate son appeared out of thin air, a 25 year old man looking for his uh maternal parent, and finding her. She came up to my room when I was on death's door, and she announced the return of this nightmare to her doorstep in upscale Wellington Crescent with her three daughters and this B IN L goat fucker. It was a nightmare for her. And how was I doing? It was amazing I was still alive. And in to be sure, it was. And I somehow ended up with a box of zoloft overlooking the river valley eating absolutely staggering amounts of zoloft. I was on the internet it was 1996. 

I was crusing the net and found out zoloft has no toxic limitation in amounts taken orally. I started stepping up the dosage to the highest prescribed amounts, like 250 mg. Daily. That's alot. A lot of zoloft. I did it for about a month. I pumped it up to 350 for a week, hit 500 for about two or three days, and said, Fuck it. I hit 750 mg per day for four days, and that was described on the pool game night when everybody including me thought I made the shot of the century with the seven ball and the whole crowd of 14 or 16 players and gals cheered and shit if I didn't use the cue ball. I didn't even know I didn't use the cue ball. Only Donna saw it. 

Funny story, I later edited a newspaper called Western Amateur Sports News and she owned it. It was when I developed the artificial leg invention and I spend one year working part time editing her newspaper that she destroyed by hiring Larry. That's a whole other story. Larry is a shmole other story. Larry was on the pool team. He bought it when I took that shot. He couldn't believe what he saw. Nobody could. It was intense and amazing and miraculous, and a pure invention of my fucking mind that even I didn't conceive. It came out of nowhere. I backed off the zoloft right there. Never did another pill. It was interesting coming down. It was like a movie scene of a spacecraft, an early one, descending from space at a shivering pace. It was shaky, and loosely in control. I didn't have any pain. I was too in awe of the night and that event. I thought it was the coolest fucking thing that ever happened. 

But I quickly cranked into another phase and actually tumbled into some casual cocaine smoking of rocks with Larry. After one evening with Larry and the girl with I believe a truly competitive set of breasts, indeed, world beater breasts. She was gorgeous. Larry was 30-ish and hooked on several things. Cocaine, smoked or snorted was first. Hot pussy second. Backgammon, Third, And a late insurgent interest was PlayStation NHL 1999. I watched Larry shag more pussy than I did in my prime, which I was now past, and Larry was a real hound dog. It was reasonably workable catting around. I would say, a couple of times I envied Larry's successes, but usually I was satisfied that he was the better man for that job. No offence Larry. You're a fucking monster. 

Anyway we played a season or two of NHL 1999. We got good at it, but I made a codicil that worked him over real hard. It was the Chase View. I would only play in Chase View. This made it almost impossible for Larry to win more than 60 percent of the games, and often he was threatened with early extinction from a season for a favoured team. It happened so often that he resorted to smoking cocaine in the back room and coming out for the next period and killing me. I got so pissed off when I saw the pattern after four or five of these fucking massacre-sized encounters. I told him, you do that you give me ahoot too. 

I ain't playing this shit without the same edge. Suddenly I was back into cocaine and I was living down the hill in a different apartment and I went home one night and opened the newspaper and read about a study of the human leg in motion. I was wacked on cocaine and reading this scientific account of the human leg being studied in relation to existing mechanical devices. It was November 1997. I was delayed by the most byzantine bullshit experience a person can imagine, the one of being dragooned and deceived into carrying two invalids into the proper care scenario, when people far more qualified than me should have done it by most obvious demand. 

 My dragon-breathing sister knew these two parents were invalid. She knew his license to drive had been revoked on Vancouver Island. I didn't know. I was smoking coke and tones of hash and reading about pogo sticks and writing and selling for a tri-paper publishing outfit, and I had just been dragged on the stage by Member of Parliament third time elected Anne McLellan, and thanked on Nation wide media hugging me when she said, “'Malcolm's 1400 calls won me the election.” Well, when the B IN L saw that, I nearly died under the attack. It was ricin or some other colon eating bomb she put in a spaghetti dinner the night after the celebration. 

I consumed plate of food. I staged a wide run to the bathroom and I ejected a jetstream of hot shit that practically stoned me. I was blown away. I didn't realize immediately. It was seven years later when the pain in my colon ceased after they ran me over with the truck. It went away after that. I got him to thank for that. I'm not sure which part. I don't think I should thank him for all of it. It's not all his doing. Other people surely deserve the credit as well. For whatever reason I found myself living on the beach called Miracle Beach on Vancouver Island. After months I had the place in ship shape and the parent convinced to sell it and get out. I could too get out. And with all of us out, I could go back to living. So the house was being listed by a realtor and who shows up but the dragon-breathing sister, the other one, and the thorn in my side. They had driven two days. The B N L hung back down island.

It was a rush to get here and throw me into the street. With nothing. I went down to Victoria for three days. I slept in Beacon Height park for two nights. I slept in a barn in Ladysmith and had to drive hay truck for $20 which got me back to that fucking Miracle Beach and the cheque for $200 for writing insured I could get off that fucking island. I came to love parts of that island, but that Miracle Beach park and part is hard to swallow. The B IN L was instrumental in that bomb. Here was the moment of theft of the assets. He jerrymandered the power of attorney to my sister, the other one, and she became a bank manager out of the blue. And suddenly she owned four houses and an apartment block and I'm laying dead under a truck. 

While previously the sojourn to return to their roots set me back two years on the leg invention. I couldn't get started. I had to roll across the province of BC writing stories and hitchhiking on a peg leg I invented out of duct tape and a lot masking tape and strange boot and it was fucking weird. On that trip I received the Indian Name Walking Eagle for being too full of shit to fly. I was writing all these stories about Indian people and it was fun and lively and they loved it and they loved what I was doing but they thought it was strange. It was actually stage one of the leg invention, however, because I was learning the value of ridding oneself of a bending knee and foot contraption on the end of a stump. It's suicide. The experiment over seven months was equally dicey. I was exposed to the elements by camping and only staying in houses on a few occasions. The leg was a light weight plastic swimmers leg, and I could lock the knee but it only worked at 25 percent of it's locking ability. So it was trippy, I packed, it was tough, but the foot was a plunger-like apparatus.

 I made it work and then in November I returned to Edmonton when Dave Moser made me a half-hearted offer to put me to work on his Edmonton-published BC distributed Western Native News. Which one most resembled the human leg in motion? Independent laboratories all returned the same answer, said the tiny science digest. The only device in existence that resembles the human leg in motion is the pogo stick. SO I did the only logical thing a person would do. I put a pogo stick on the end of my stump and I walked and sprinted across the parking lot of The Prosthetic and Orthotic Care Company parking lot in November 1999, on the ICE. It freaked me out. It started a phenomenal six week deja vu feeling because the spring on the end of my stump fooled my brain into thinking the leg was back. My brain reawakened in an area that had shut down and gone into inert status, doing nothing in the absence of anything to do, but now, suddenly, the stump was not the end of the limb. And I was ambulating to an entirely enabled degree, certainly no less than a 80 percent restoration. It was a bombshell and my head never stopped spinning in the opposite direction to the orbit and the BLLLAH AHAHA of gravity. 

The mind was functioning like a life returning from death out of the blue. One day on about the second stage of the development I sprinted shoulder to shoulder with Larry down Jasper Avenue and he had a lot of trouble keeping even and he couldn't quite believe it. I did another time down Whyte Avenue shoulder to shoulder with Johnny. I think the crowd was more impressed than Johnny, but he fought a heart attack to smile at the end of three blocks. True story. I didn't even break a sweat. I had that leg working like a piston driven engine. I was unstoppable. It was that leg I was wearing the night the goat fuckers laid me on the ice to wait for the slab.

 Actually, the B IN L had cornered me in the professional community for my pot smoking. That's all he had because I was on a ten year period of abstaining from alcohol, and he used the pot smoking as an aberration that he could toy with on a surgical basis to destroy my professional reputation, to the point that the Chief intervened, when for some reason I changed my name to Malcolm McColl, and sort of reinvented my professional life by doing business in British Columbia, even though I lived in Edmonton. First the flood of assassination attempts had to be stopped. That occurred when they realized no amount of their own will was going to see me die. 

They could not execute it and they learned by trying. I want to tell my sister she is aiding and abetting goat fuckers by tolerating the side-track activities of her cocksucking goat fucking husband. She ought to sidetrack him from his Masonic lodge meetings, that's where they do all the goat fucking. Does she sleep with him after those meetings? Is that healthy? And you know, I do know he is also into skull fucking the dead. I know this from being an intended victim of the skull fucking that occurs in the morgue of the hospital when the dark circle forms around the corpse, and they donn the condoms, the rubber latex condoms, and they put the putrid penis into the holes in the head of the victim and they fuck until they ejaculate, but that doesn't take too long because, thankfully for me, the victim, they love it so much they spurt their load quickly. It's over real fast. These are school boys, really. They should be wearing Air Nikes instead of Brooks Bros. Anyway I avoided that awful indignity and denied them their night of bliss. So there. It's will, and will to respect. I can't respect institutions that call for goat fucking. I can't respect rituals that call for skull fucking. That's just showing off those condoms. It's the rubber game at full inflation. It's the guys in dark hoods moving behind rohypnol disguised as something else, like 100 mg morphine in a merry Christian holiday spirit, hand-delivered at the height of the ardour for another level of bliss. Oops there goes the evening, right off the face of the earth. And almost every thing else, including breathing. Guess what, avoiding that skull fucking is nice, but it's much nicer depriving them of their night of bliss. That is the stench of victory. 

 So back to the story of Lori and her nymphomania which leads within two decades to my mental chasm called nympholepsy. 

About age 11 she encounters a young girl friend who nights over with Lori and discovers the amazing tits on her chest. What the little girl friend discovers, still a couple years from that accelerated development, more than anything is the elation that these breasts give to Lori. It is a shining moment. And the little girl has older brothers. The girl experiments with smoking and Lori does too. A couple months later, in the spring time when Lori is 11 years and four months old, she walks into a nearby garage; this gathering is a result of the little girl introducing Lori's tits to her 11 year old brother during a smoking session on a warm bench behind the garage. 

The little fella didn't know entirely what to make of it, but he told his 13 year old brother she likes to smoke and had these big tits. It was a household not far from the low-cost townhouse Lori lived in with her foster parent, a welfare belching, smoke eating whale who had a real daughter too, a real ugly daughter. The garage is a nice setup for some surreptitious smoking and there is a group of 13 year old boys and the little sister and Lori. She's wearing a denim outfit. She has real short hair. She has on a t shirt and a cover-all get-up, no bra, huge tits, already there happening full steam ahead. The little sister knows it, all about it, gave vivid details to the oldest 13 year old. Lori, is 12, according to the rule book. Lori makes the rules. Lori endures a cigarette or two or anticipation, and then the request comes, can we see what's behind the coveralls.

 Absolutely. One at a time. In the back seat of the Cadillac that's parked in the garage beside the smoking circle. Three times they go in. Each time they come out she is happy they were there beside her. Each one was amazed by the sight and feel and she is glowing from her breasts to her eyeballs and the wetness is growing below her belly. She promises to herself and all concerned that it will happen again. It does. It happens again a few times. The legend grows in the fastest way, faster than the immediate dilation of her protruding nipples, that were large on top of big tits. 

She is playing and suddenly a penis is in her and she is peaches with it. She has a pretty established thought process that says this thing is going to be very enjoyable so she is going to learn how to use it the best she can. But when the oldest 13 year old is done and he's ecstatic she makes the mistake of telling him she's 11 years and 5 months old and the game is over. She panics the crowd with that announcement. They flee and the next encounter Lori has with any real adventure is a meeting in the summer hockey rink, the abandoned facility. Boys are playing baseball in the field. Lori is sitting and smoking in the players box of the hockey rink with a neighbourhood girl who knows the stories about Lori's thing in the Cadillac. 

The girl knows another girl who comes into the players box and shoves the other girl aside. It's Tina. She's a tall beautiful real fit girl. She's same age as Lori, a few months older. She's got a nice set of tits on the horizon and it's all coming together. But what she sees in Lori is too much for her delicate sensibilities, and cigarettes and tossed aside and Lori is laying on the floor of the players box and her shirt is off and the ridiculous coveralls thing is torn and Tina is devouring Lori's tits. It's on. And Lori is steaming mad, absolutely outraged, and her porcelain white face is beat red, as are the breasts. And she can't stop the girl because the girl is doing everything right. And she won't stop. She won't won't She? And she doesn't. 

It goes on long after the first girl fled in terror. Tina took over Lori's tits for several months and never ever let go in ensuing years, either, but everybody took a back seat to those tits as the years began to call. Here's how Tina's infatuation led to a huge development in Lori's nymphomania. Lori and Tina were in the shower at school with the rest of the class, and Tina had slid Lori to the back and was soaping up Lori's enticing wet tits, getting into it, and most of the girls were ignoring it, some were giggling, and the gym teacher came in and dropped her clipboard and had orgasm at the sight of Lori's wet soapy tits orgasmic in Tina's hands. Lori couldn't help it. She led the way back there in the shower. In less than 10 minutes Lori found herself in the health office between the nurse and the gym teacher. She was still a little wet and in her short and gym shirt. For about 15 seconds. The nurse started giving her an examination. And the shirt was off an instant later. And the gym teacher had another orgasm. And then the rule was set. And it was set by Lori. What was the new rule? No more gym class. 

She hates fucking gym class. So from now on she spend gym class in the nurses office. Every Tuesday and Thursday for three hours each day, because she also misses health class. She hates health class too. And another rule. She gets A's in both of the classes she misses. And never attends even once. Lori met vibrators during health class and gym class. She and the nurse who was young part-time professional of 22 years of age with an amazing body and a lot of friends like her. That's another story, well, in this chapter. You won't have to wait too long. So Lori is spending many after-school hours in Tina's bedroom and learning about all kinds of girl-things that her flatulent foster mother and fat-ugly foster sister could never teach her. 

She was learning about orgasms. Tina is a great teacher with long slender fingers and a ready smile. Tina had a dark side. Her father was an alcoholic who ran a couple of businesses and did reasonably well. But as a drunk he was abusive to her mother, so Tina hated men. The school year ended on a high note, the grade 8 year. One day in the nurses office the door opened by surprise, because the principal had a key. The great Lonny Wight was the school principal. He could have been the all-time greatest full-back in Canadian Football League (CFL) history. He interrupted the nurse and Lori, and he asked Lori to leave. He instructed the nurse about the importance of decorum, and he had to have this girl sent to his office but it would have to wait till tomorrow. 

The nurse had an idea and she acquired some body paint. Anyway I just finished $340 worth of cocaine from Friday to Tuesday. It was worth every penny. I have a pep rally happening every time I do it so I discovered a way to enjoy it again. Lucky huh. I am selfish about my temple visits. I like them a lot and I never share the temple. So Lori sat still while the nurse and the gym teacher painted each glorious breast to look like a football, Canadian size, the gym teacher said. Then the nurse put Lori's shirt on and led her to the principal's office. It was one in the afternoon and Lori was let in, and the nurse backed out of the office, locking the door on her way out. It was here that Lori learned to be a silent sex partner. She sat across the desk from Lonny who was looking at her in her gym shorts and top. “Thought you didn't like gym class,” said Lonny. “I hate it,” said Lori. 

 Lonny rose from his comfortable chair and walked around the desk. Lori was sitting very still but her breasts were starting to ache as the paint hardened. She was sitting and waiting for relief and she didn't have to wait long. So Shannon went away for a week but on the cusp of her departure we had a conversation via email that I'm going to share because it is a piece of writing that requires no thinking on my part and at this moment in time that happens to be the only kind of writing I can accomplish. It's emails between me and Shannon. Read it yourself, then tell me she ain't a spy: She says: <i>I finally read it! There are parts that are excellent, alive and entirely riveting, and there are parts that are nothing but diary entries of a downward spiralling drug addict, ie: predictable. You should let someone edit it, if you're serious about it being a book. I'd do it. It's my style of writing. (not the kind I do but the kind I like.) I think it could be quite good. I'd also share my script with you, if I hadn't just read it and hated it all over again. I'm writing another new one now, maybe I'll share that one in a week or so. They're both about whores. Speaking of whores....I'm a what?

 "Shannon is a ......" I'M A WHAT? At least check if you're right or not! I'll give you a hint: I'm neither a Whore or a Spy.</i> (The hint is a dead give away, hardly a hint at all. She says she's not a whore, and 'or' a spy. If she wasn't a spy she would have said 'nor a spy.' But realize I'm not offended any more. At least they are sending a better class of spy these days. I'll tell ya.) I replied, hahaha. Now you got me wondering . . . you mean there is something to salvage in it? I knew you were going to read it so I took out what you are and it is neither whore nor spy There is silence. I succumb, and say, Okay WHAT AM I demands some kind of answer, now, doesn't it? I would say you are a waking dream. (I asked her the other day when I was obtaining my weekend dosage of Nick's finest, which he delivers to the office, and it's the usual question from a chronic, do you smoke weed? “No.” The boss interjects, “No, Shannon's an alcoholic.” So I start to babble, I've got to say that I am basically making notes more so than writing it as a book at this moment. We should talk about it, because things go through my mind, like, should I move the spiraling drug addict to the front (after it's cleaned up). I want to put a great deal more into the actual event of getting high, which is totally absent, I hardly ever write in the throes of the inhalations. There are a couple of parts that are entirely embarrassing and those need to be discussed. And I add, 

Okay so if you read the chapter on nympholepsy than you may gather what kind of dreams I have, waking and otherwise. Then she says, No no no! I'm saying the 'spiralling drug addict' is the least interesting part. It should be background noise. Like you talk about it but just in passing, the reader's never really sure. Some of the money exchanges are interesting and the stuff about Len too. But as far as describing getting high, etc., that's what I'm saying predictable, and we've all heard it before and read it and watched in movies or lived it. It's the other stuff, your descriptions of people and event that is interesting. The nipple hair thing is hilarious. Your description of your reaction to it. That's good stuff as far as I'm concerned. and the fact that you're writing it with a brain full of drugs most of the time, is why you need an editor. It both helps your writing and harms it. Then I say, Really, because I'll never forget it and there is something about her that she kind of imposed it on me 

 And you are right about the drug stuff because to be honest I find the drug parts rather aggravating and regrettable to read over and I usually love reading over my stuff and reworking it, but you are totally correct, the drug parts or the stoner activity is definitely a dead-weight to moving the plot forward. I am turning away from the drug parts in the immediate next chapter. I am going to go deeper into the Regina experience and describe In the next chapter which is to Rest and Reincarnate I am going to go into some really strange characters that are Cree and a few others that I met in Regina. There is hardly any drugs, well, I mean, there is no inhalation of cocaine. Then there's a freaking book in itself about nympholepsy, that's going to be a weird look at sexuality. Then she says, Good, I like it. It's all very interesting. I don't want to talk about it too much because if you think about it too much you'll probably become self conscious and start writing shit! So just continue as you are, and think about letting me take a stab at editing it for you when you're feeling close to done. And try to write as much as you can when you're sober. I guarantee you you'll be more insightful and even more spontaneous and clever. 

 Then I lied, You're totally correct about the current writing regime. I'm going to have to lay off the intense cocaine use pretty soon anyway. I'm getting kind of bored with it. But I got a couple more rounds in me first. I'll switch back to smoking pot, and, when the need for a crazed moment rises, I'll drink a bunch of red wine. But I want to make it clear in the book when that separation from cocaine occurs. I want the weird psychology of my drug use to be apparent to the reader, and I want to see it myself. I want to challenge myself to see how hard it is to stop dead in my tracks. I'm really looking forward to it. I'm not kidding either. I've been planning it all along. Then she says, Oh, I didn't mean to write ' let ME take a stab at editing it' I meant to write, 'let someone take a stab at editing it' !!! But I would too. Hah. 

 That's sounds VERY good on many levels. Seriously. Then I said, Thank you so much. I'm really doing the craziest shit to scare myself out of this Complex Post Traumatic Stress Disorder that is driving me up the fucking wall. You are so right. I really only write it when I back away from the cocaine for a few hours. I'm usually wrapped pretty tight when I'm high like that, although occasionally I step up to the keyboard and do a few lines of text. Those are the scary parts that I would like to edit with severity. What I need soon, is, I need a couple of days on a red wine bender and a big bag of weed and the whole picture will change instantly, and I'll see the writing programme in full detail. I would truly appreciate you taking the project on when it's ready. It won't be long to wait either. I expect to be done writing my part well within this calendar year Then she says, I don't think there's such thing as scaring one's self out of a disorder. Sounds more like the disorder secretly scaring the person. 

 I think the writing helps you. Just try to focus on that. I think it could be something really good, but only if you have the strength to finish it. If you really want to ease yourself off the coke, you should get some b-12 too and some Adavan. If you go to the doc and tell them you need to go off coke (any doc at all) they will give you something. I happen to know more than I'd like about the whole ordeal as both my last 2 boyfriends dealt with cocaine addictions, as well as my father, as you know. 

 Well, I am a master self-medicator, and I appreciate that advice. I won't tell any doctor anything about my illicit drug usage. I'll use pot. It does everything I want from a drug anyway. I am a pot-smoker at heart. This cocaine binge is a form of deviance and defiance all wrapped up in an excuse, C-PTSD. I read Gabor Mate's quote from a guy who experienced torture, which said, basically, the torture never ends. That's what's happening to me. The torture is unending. I am wrapped so tight by the missing memory of that night that I can hardly breathe without a buzz on. I don't want prescription meds. I've tried them all. I know what I need. I just have to make the imminent decision, which I think I have made clear enough. It's coming soon.

 I've never going to completely turn my back on any substance. But I think it's even stated in the later stage of the manuscript that I am wondering about how much fun it is anymore. And now, to you. Your script. I think you should share it with me. I would like to read it. I want to read it. And she says, Oh you all say that at first!! ("I'm not telling a doctor!") Anyway, you're a grown man, you can take care of yourself. Sounds like you have a plan. I understand what you are telling me about the CPTSD and I appreciate your sharing. I know that I cant even begin to imagine what you've been through, no matter how much you describe. I respect how far you've come despite the disorder already. My script, yes I will share eventually. 

 For now, I'm off for the night. Thanks for the impromptu chat...I guess I started it, hah. See you tomorrow. Then I say, One more thing. I have a dire sense of impending doom about this right side of my body. It feels like the pelvis is coming apart in a couple of places. I'll have to go to doctor soon for a prescription on the prosthetic leg. The doctor will take one look at the mess and beg me to take some morphine because they will be absolutely certain that I must be going out of my mind with pain. Well, yes, it's one of the things pushing my mind into a bender. 

Every day it gets worse and every day I have to convince myself that it's going to hold in for another day. Today it was the worst it's ever been and I think some of those fucking plates are coming apart, which means the pelvis is coming apart. That fucking terrifies me. I'll be envying people in wheelchairs. Have a good night's sleep . Over and out. Then she says, Well if it's happening, then it's happening and waiting wont help. Just get to the doctor and deal with what they tell you when you know more, it's all you can do. But your main responsibility is in getting yourself to the doctor, and soon. Do you already have one, or do you need a new one? And I say, need one. Fred said he has one. I'll ask him for the number tomorrow. 

 GO TO SLEEP She said something about why would I trust a doctor that is recommended by Fred, and I wanted to reply that I don't trust any doctor, recommended or sainted. None of them. Not one. They are simply working for the ones who pay the cheque. I think Paul is trying to make me into a quitter. Two or three times in the past two days he's run out of dope. I call there's no cocaine. I am wondering, who is this guy's superior? We must have a conversation. We he runs out of dope I run out of dope.

 The feeling coming down at this level of inhalation is similar to the drop down from the Zoloft experiment. You are descending at a rapid rate and it feels like you are coming apart but it's fun if you can take it. Anyway my dosage has been put into a regimen, and it goes like this, $50 and $40 and $30 pieces through the week, one a day or so of those, then Friday night is a $110 kick and an extra. So it's usually about those doses lately, especially since the crazy eight ball inhalation within Five hours of two weeks ago. I don't think anybody was impressed by that besides me. 

 Chapter 6: To Rest and Reincarnate I see it clearly now, and I see the years of close surveillance and deep, penetrating intervention by an intractable close physical enemy. They had wealth and power and organization spanning those centuries.

 They know what they're doing. I am a son of the Chief, adopted by the Great Father, living with him as a toddler, meeting him again later when he gave me this assignment, the one to go to Regina. That was when he re-introduced himself and went over a few details about my coming life, none of which I retained but off I went down the road to this destination and purpose.

 

 It went something like this. I was flying along under the radar and learning to write wacky stuff on a free lance basis for a weekly newspaper called the Drayton Valley Western Review. I interviewed a 450 lb. Burlesque dancer/ stripper who worked at the Black Gold Room, and I did it before her show, and my first line in the story was, Where do you think I found her?

 I wrote another story about a guy building a replica P-51 that he'd worked on for 20 years. It was going well. I estimated it might take another 20 years to piece it all together. I think I expressed the hope that, a. He was still alive to do so, and b. I was not around to see it. I was hanging around with Morgan Mackay and smoking dope and watching a gigantic plume of burning gas called the Lodgepole Blowout. Two guys died trying to put it out and I lost my job as a reporter for reporting it. This was when the Herodotians came up with a bright idea to send me to Regina, Saskatchewan. 

This manuevre did many things. It completely dislocated my life and then supplanted a strange bland, emptiness. It is not easy to walk into a city and just start getting laid at the drop of a hat. It's not like you have a trap-line that you can stumble down to get some fur at several sites. Don't forget I'm disabled, and in a city like Regina that really stands out because the wind will blow your leg backwards at the hinge and any given minute will find an amputee laying flat on his back cursing the wind. Yes dear reader for the life of me I couldn't understand how badly they treated the dedicated 13th stepper at AA meetings in Regina. I actually ended up converting to Christ after five months, so I could get down and lick some respectable pussy. I met a gal or two but I had to do a lot of shopping the street and I was a continuous street shopper in Regina for the entire time I lived there. That is a lot of whoring. That was Rose Street, north of Victoria Avenue, but the record shows this all clearly enough. I got very close to the Cree nation during those years. It was not too long after I was there that the intense spiritual dynamics were happening. I know the chief sent me there to learn about the creativity of the Plains Cree nation, to learn the law and lay of the land. I came at her from the due west. I was struck by the strange geography that hides the city for most of the drive traveling east on Highway 1. The city is built north of a bypass and sits in a basin below the Qu'Appelle Valley. Dozens of Indian Reserves lie to the north and east, and farmers and ranchers occupy the land south and west. 

The land is prone to floods and it has a flat appearance. I went straight downtown to the LaSalle Hotel owned by Roger and his family of wife and three daughters worked there. The LaSalle Hotel was home of the Liberal Party of Saskatchewan and it had a restaurant where I ate a lot of meals. It had a little lounge that I drank a lot of coffee in. It had a bar next door that I never entered. I was in my third year of sobriety in AA. I did however smoke a lot of dope. I smoked before I entered the meeting and after I left the meeting. My AA vignette is fairly important. I was sitting in the basement at the meeting room of the Something's Fucked Here Group looking at the walls that had maps of the districts and said to the guy sitting next to me, “Those are the covens huh.” He burst out laughing at my remark but close surveillance continued. 

I wasn't asked to speak at the meeting for the entire six months that I attended. I was there every night for the last two months to test the situation. It prevailed that I was not asked to speak at this supposedly open AA forum. I did go to other meetings. It was then that I bumped into Pastor John at the golf course and around this time that I met the Poorman boys, including the earliest meeting with Uncle Ambrose. Complex Post Traumatic Stress Disorder is a complexity of declining capacity. Meanwhile a new nymph entered the picture, Benita, and she came with a warning about the manuscript. She captured me first before she whispered the warning. 

She captured me on one of my rare forays into public. I was riding a bus instead of my bike. I put my bike on the front and sat near the front and I was looking down at the floor as the bus began to fill. I was suddenly disturbed by a pair of thin legs standing virtually between mine where I sat. And I was slightly perplexed because they continued to stand there, and once made a strong impression on the inside of my right thigh. Then she moved quickly, before I could look up even as far as her behind, and she spun, and her breasts were standing out like two brilliant bulbs of closeknit something-of-what-we-need. Then I realized she was less than 12 years old, yet she was also very much a sensual presence. I spent the next 20 minutes of the bus ride doing everything in my power to ignore her, yet somehow, no matter how tight the fit and large the crowd and amount of movement, somehow, she stood right in front of me and I could not move my head away. 

 She held me so tight I thought I could hear Willow Ho laughing. It was at the end of the bus ride that I finally escaped the immediate attention of the nymph. The instruction came later. She gave me her name first. Then she told me the situation. This entranced me for a long spell. Then she spoke about the manuscript. Change the name. That's all she said. Then she went back to where she was and that was more trance. 

I thought of Benita as a fairly sedentary capture until she unleashed a ferocity that completely set Rufus and Lionel into a state of quivering. She has held me tight at the collar since the moment of capture. I saw Willow Ho today, about 48 hours into the capture by Benita. Willow showed modest sympathy for my situation but she only held that position publicly. I went for dinner one night at a house of a Dutchman who I befriended in Regina through a girl named Rebecca, who was Becky. She was a friend of Brian Meikle. She had the biggest set of hooters in the world, and of course this was undeniable. Becky was a stunningly beautiful woman who wore the most amazing mask. It was the mask of ludicry. She wore it until she had enough red wine and suddenly she was the most outrageous blonde beauty in the world. 

Her ludicry was boundless, however, and not contained to her face. I found a single gnarly hair growing from one of her nipples. It was just the craziest thing and I stopped wanting to fuck her right there, and I never want to stop fucking at this point in my life. I virtually live for it. But seeing that hair was like a spider had taken a chomp on the end of my dick. Nevertheless I faked my way through to an orgasm while she was half-laughing, and mostly mocking, and the ludicry was back on her face to the climax. I wasn't surprised. I had post traumatic stress disorder under control. Becky and I were on a roll one time in the city of Regina and it was fun. She introduced me to Chris and his family, and I was at Chris' house a few times getting slammed drunk and making a complete ass of myself. Chris was a really nice guy and far from obtuse, something of a savant for hard-headed thinking, however. 

One night as supper was being prepared by his lovely wife, whose name escapes but I think it was Lee or something, and he made a point of warning me about the spicy contents about to be served. His rabble of kids gathered at the table, and when it came time to eat I was immediately struck by the lack of taste. I couldn't even taste salt. I always remembered it. I wondered if Dutch people have different taste buds. Chris loved to smoke dope and lots of it. I was frequently there as a result, and then a tragic occurrence had changed Chris. 

 I left the city of Regina where I lived for 7 years, sort of, mostly here and there in the city, leaving for months on end and something drawing me back to the place. At one point in a long-escape to someplace else, like Halifax for six months, or Toronto for six months (and I have a dark and humorous dissertation about that six months) or God-forbid (and I refer to the Red Guy on high doing my forbidding) Edmonton again for a few months, and later returning for more years, then to Vancouver Island for a few months, then years, off and on, then nowhere for six months in 1999, then to Edmonton again, and proceeding with a prosthetic leg invention. Always with the fucking Edmonton. (I had this amazing flash of invention in 1997 that I'll you about later, and were drugs involved, don't ask stupid questions, but I went into development of a prosthetic leg in late 1999 and received US Patent #6,717,488 in 2003.) 

 Anyway, I arrived back in Regina in the mid-summer of 1986 (where I had infatuation with a pair of breasts belonging to a Cathy who had a last name the same as a street name in Halifax, which I discovered because I worked on that street when I went to Halifax for six months in 1985) and upon returning to Regina, instantly, and unsuspectingly, ran into Uncle Ambrose at the Jolly Roger tavern in the city's farthest west-end, the kind of joint that would meet the tornado first and probably still be standing. 

In that intriguing encounter Uncle Ambrose instigated an LSD trip on the evening of the afternoon in question and this turned into a haunting encounter with the ghost of Uncle Ambrose six months later, but that's another chapter, called To Rest and Reincarnate. The inside story on the Ambrose incident is elementary. Ambrose died and three weeks later after he was murdered by a knife plunging into his chest three times and he was left dead in a porch-way of an abandoned house on the fringes of Moccasin Flats, in the month of February, he walked down the sidewalk in front of an apartment I was sharing with Julie, a beautiful 19 year old lass whose dad owned the local Canadian Tire franchise. I was watching Wide World Of Sports on TV on a Saturday afternoon and Uncle Ambrose strolled past on the sidewalk out front. I decided to keep watching the sports rather than interrupt his stroll. 

Next day his nephew Randy walked into the Georgia Hotel tavern and sits down with me. “Saw Uncle Ambrose yesterday,” I said. “Shut up.” “Why?” I was stunned by Randy's angry response, “He walked past my apartment window yesterday afternoon.” “You should have gone to talk to him,” said Randy, “because Uncle Ambrose died three weeks ago,” and Randy told me how they found him. So it was the ghost of Uncle Ambrose. I was sitting in the Georgia Hotel tavern with Randy wondering about this, and also wondering why Randy was sitting there. 

Not too many Cree people walked into the Georgia Hotel in Regina to sit down and drink beer. The bouncers and servers always asked the Cree or any Indian for ID, and when they failed to produce it were told to leave. Not this Sunday afternoon. Randy had a message to deliver. Stop chasing the ghost of Uncle Ambrose. Finally I returned to see Chris sans Becky (for we stopped hanging around) one evening where I was met with an awful surprise. Chris answered the door in a wheelchair of all things. I was staggered. I asked him what the fuck happened. He told me to come in and told me about the reason he was sitting in the wheelchair. 

He bought a heavy truck for hauling on the highway and one night they rolled it on a deserted highway in Montana. He hung upside down with the belt holding him in the air. His back was broken, his partner was dead, and the stereo was playing the song, “Neutron Dance” by the Pointer Sisters, which played eternally, he said. It was an 8-track and the machine kept repeating the song over and over for hours until they were found. It was a nasty PTSD memory and he was suffering it and the injury hard, still in the difficult stage of post-trauma bitterness. 

But he and the family had gone over to Holland for a vacation and he had some excellent hash-hish, which he shared. It was one of the last times I saw him. I left town or was just passing through. I am always just passing through. My main memory of the encounter was my feelings about Jesus. I thought to myself, Chris always liked to kick the shit out of Jesus. It was fascinating how much he hated Jesus. In looking back today, I can clearly see Jesus stepping out of the way and letting Chris hang like that on the side of deserted highway, while someone, somewhere, is having the time of their lives tearing Chris to shreds.