CHAPTER 3 - MY FIRST PRESIDENT

Muskegon, Michigan is a coastal tourist attraction, and home of the annual Seaway and Coast Guard festivals which bring people to the town from all over Michigan. VanderJagt remained publicly visible through opportunities such as these. My father often could be seen with Vanderjagt and was photographed at his side white judging festival events like the kiddie parades, sand sculpturing contests, and so on—all of which I entered and won. In later years, my father polished and shined the red paint of his 1966 Ford convertible to chauffeur VanderJagt through the local parades. This only served to reinforce the illusion that my father was a "pillar of the community".

In 1973, Senator Byrd instructed my father to send me to Muskegon Catholic Central High School which was overseen by the director of St. Francis of Assisi Church, Father Lepre. The Catholic church, of course, has its own political structure, with the Pope presiding over all. The strong political ties between the Catholic church and the U.S. Government was overtly evidenced by the much publicized relationship between the President and the Pope during the Reagan Administration.

Of course, I had been privy to this political relationship ever since my First Communion - a relationship that the Rite to Remain Silent was intended to cover. My experience with Catholic Central’s direct involvement in Project Monarch’s physical and psychological conditioning further confirmed the union between the U.S. Government and the Catholic church.

When Senator Byrd changed my school from public to Parochial, he also destroyed through dissociation my school personality. I no longer viewed school as my haven from abuse, as it was controlled by the church and, as I later learned, monitored by a corrupt segment of the C.I.A.

By the time I enrolled in Catholic Central, the cliques and groups had already been formed. I had a personality to fit in with the "good" kids and one that interfaced with the "bad". It did not take long for the "good" kids to notice I also got along with the "bad". I soon found the only kids that could relate tome were the other known Project victims. We clung together in a close knit group, herded around like the proverbial sheep by those in the school who knew we were MPD/DIDed and under mind control. We each switched personalities as circumstance demanded, most often in unison. 

We were ritually traumatized, constantly tranced, and then programmed during school hours. Since I no longer had my singular "school personality" and was constantly switching instead, the compartment of my brain that held school memory was no longer consciously retrievable. Therefore, I had no basis for continued learning aside from what I could photographically memorize from class. My grades appeared erratic, ranging from A’s to failing. And some A’s received I did not earn academically.

In my required religion class, Sister Ann Marie bad been leading us in study on the topic of Confession. This was to prepare us for the kind of Confessions we were to be giving Father Vesbit, who was also our school principal. The day Sister ordered us to Confession, I refused to go. I unconsciously feared I would be sexually assaulted again in the Confessional, this time while my teenage peers waited impatiently outside the door. Sister made an example out of me to the class, saying I was a "Satanist" and that I was "going to hell".

With seemingly no escape from the occultism that proliferated at the school, I could no longer differentiate between Catholicism and Satanism.

Whatever Senator Byrd’s purposes in sending me to Catholic school, no one seemed to notice that I had no reason to religiously adhere to Catholic principles. Therefore, the applied reversal of Satanism held no "spiritual magic" to it either. The wedge of anti-superstition that the Catholic school was inadvertently driving into me only served to discount the occult principles and superstitious traumas that they were attempting to use to control me,

Satanism is often used as an extreme pain/violence trauma base in Project Monarch Mind Control, reportedly due to the previous German Nazi Himmler Research. I did not adhere to the desired helplessness attitude that this was "spiritual warfare" and out of the realm of mankind’s ability to stop. Regardless of my religious beliefs or disbeliefs, I experienced the "results" just the same. Being subjected to and witnessing trauma so horrible, while my body was raped, tortured, and ravaged by men literally drove me out of my mind.

Catholic Central did increase my endurance capabilities as planned, however. I signed up for the two-mile run in the girls’ track team as ordered. Muskegon Catholic Central led the state of Michigan in high school athletics, using mind-control technique to "modify" their star athletes and cause them to excel beyond pre-established records.

The school gained national recognition for its contribution to professional leagues with their manufactured programmed athletes. But, like Tommy La Sorda’s Dodgers, Catholic Central’s consistent victories began to raise suspicions and questions. This created a public scandal for the school that threatened to close its doors in 1975.

The girls’ and guys’ track teams converged after school for practice. I was among the few females singled out for coaching by Coach Cheverini and his hypnotic mind-control methodisms due to my Project Monarch victimization. I was instructed to run 13 miles per day (another corny satanic ploy) to get in shape for my two-mile race. I often ran with a male friend who was the record holder for the two-mile in guys’ track. He and I were friends, sharing much due to our similar Project Monarch victimizations.

Together we learned how to shut out pain and fatigue when we ran. We tranced into a fast pace set in our minds by Coach Cheverini with no comprehension of time or distance. We perceived the track as our "Yellow Brick Road" in accordance with the Oz theme programming. Senator Byrd’s plan for building my physical endurance through Catholic Central’s coaching methods proved successful for allowing me to survive his intensely torturous sexual perversions.

In addition to routine trips to Mackinac Island and Niagara Falls, my family often took camping trips to "get away from it all". In reality, I was taken to key places for ritual abuse, prostitution, and pornography. In the fall of 1974, my father announced we were going to go camping "back in time" to an old-fashioned festival in the small remote town of Cedar Springs, Michigan for their annual Red Flannel Days celebration. My mother told me to pack my jeans and sweaters and my Catholic school uniform which she had washed and pressed for the occasion.

Cedar Springs was quiet, with the festival events including dilapidated amusement rides set up in a small parking lot, and contests where local farmers pitted their mules and horses against each other to see whose could pull the most weight. The main (and only) street of town was lined with the few local businesses, including the town’s red flannel underwear "long Johns" factory. In the center of town, a mock, single, jail cell had been erected to hold any and all parade participants who failed to wear the required red flannel underwear.

The jail was guarded by quasi Keystone Cops. I was amused when the townsfolk began lining up to march in the parade, with very few remaining to watch it. A mentally retarded man carried the baton to lead the parade, followed by kids on bicycles, hay-wagons of old folks, a grade school band and people walking-all in their red flannel underwear. The grand finale’ of the parade, the town fire truck, was approaching, surrounded by numerous motorcycle police.

I heard folks whispering "the President is coming". I assumed they meant the President of the underwear factory. I was wrong. I watched in horror as the fire truck rolled to a stop, and Secret Service helped then President Gerald Ford as he stepped down to the pavement.

My father was excitedly tugging on my arm, half dragging me through the wall of Secret Service agents, to talk with President Ford. I looked around nervously as my father made the necessary arrangements with Ford to prostitute me to him later that evening. VanderJagt, who never missed a parade it seemed, was signing autographs. As he smiled at me, someone roughly grabbed my arm. Nervous and startled, I screamed.

The crowd laughed as a Keystone Cop threw me in the jail, scolding me for not wearing my red flannel underwear when I was talking to the President. I was trying to be inconspicuous in hopes no one would see me with the likes of Ford, but then, they did not know him as I did. The Keystone Cop rattled on and on about "how lucky" I was until my father paid my bail and I was released from the cell.

That night, I wore my Catholic uniform as instructed and went into a dissociative trance as my father drove me to the local National Guard Armory where I was prostituted to Ford. Ford took me into an empty room, pushed me down on the wooden floor as he unzipped his pants and said, "Pray on this". Then he brutally, sexually assaulted me. Afterward, my memory was compartmentalized through use of high voltage. I was then carried out to the car where I lay in the back seat, muscles contracted, stunned, in pain, and unable to move.

When we got back to Muskegon, my father sent me to the beach as always, to let the repetition of crashing waves against the beach "wash my mind free of memory" while I watched the sun set. I was totally locked into the belief that truly there was "no place to run," not even to the President of the United States.

I remember that the "sane" part of "me"-my innate personality-seemed to die after seeing Ford as President. I recall walking up the steps of Catholic Central High School one morning, reaching for the door, and crying uncontrollably. I cried myself into a heap at the top of the stairs. I did not even know why I was crying. As an MPD, I rarely cried at all. But I was still sobbing hours later when school let out. Someone found me, but I do not recall to this day ever leaving the school steps.

I never really experienced "emotion" after that day until I was rescued, deprogrammed and reintegrated in 1988. Now all of my brain was functioning through a wide variety of memory compartments, also known as multiple personalities, with no part of me left "free" of abuse. Now it was as though I had "no place to run," not even in my brain. This drove me out of my mind which is exactly what my abusers needed for total control.
 

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CHAPTER 4 - THE MOST DANGEROUS GAME

When I learned of a pending rendezvous with Senator Byrd in Traverse City, Michigan (VanderJagt’s headquarters), I stole some candy at a local convenience market hoping to go to jail and escape my encounter with Byrd. I was caught, and the police were even called. But, of course, my poetically powerful abusers would not allow for me to have a police record. The entire matter was not-so-mysteriously and suddenly dropped. My only "punishment" was to have a conference with the school principal, Father Vesbit.

Father Vesbit knew I was part of Project Monarch, and handled the matter accordingly. He raped me in the school’s private chapel after school while holding a Satanic ritual involving several of my project friends. Kids often attached nicknames to their teachers, and there were only a few of us who knew the reason why Father Vesbit was called Father "Fuzzbutt". His backside was covered with thick black hair. He "counseled" me on several occasions, once remarking, "I thought kids in your situation were all part of the Exchange Student program."

My Uncle Bob Tanis was visiting our house soon after that. He had flown in from what he claimed was a "black ops" Air Force Intelligence operation. I know now that in typical CIA mode of operations, he was relating a story of lies salted with some truth. His point was to inform me that the Catholic Church is "justified" in its involvement with our government due to the Priests’ "hearing confessions from mobsters and spies".

He also explained that Exchange Students were "spies in the making" that Priests found, through Confession, were problems. Thus they were considered expendable and transferred out of the country. He then suggested to my father that I see the school guidance counselor, CIA Operative Dennis DeLaney, immediately. My father enthusiastically told me that DeLaney was a long time friend of his from St. Francis who "knew how to handle kids like me". Arrangements were made for me to see him after school.

DeLaney began by informing me that he was "aware of everything" and that he knew just what I needed "to put me back on track". He said that my family needed to lake a trip to the Teton Mountains of Wyoming. He even provided maps and information in an envelope for my father. He turned off the lights in his office, and turned on a slide projector. He showed me scenes of the numerous waterfalls of the Tetons, all of which were to "wash my brain" of the reality that I was performing oral sex on him as ordered while the slides ran. Then he scheduled a follow up appointment for further "counseling".

This trip to the Tetons would provide a change of scenery tram the usual Mackinac/Niagara Falls trip, but I could no longer hope for a change in the direction life was leading me. I was told my life was "predestined," and all I had to do was follow the road stretched out before me, i.e., the "Yellow Brick Road". I was destined for Wyoming, but would not know why until I arrived.

I confirmed the family trip to the Tetons when Isaw DeLaney for my follow-up "counseling". He informed me that he had already talked to my father about the trip, as well as our upcoming trip to Disney World in Florida. I was not surprised to learn of an additional trip. Nor did I have the capacity to become excited, suspicious, or apprehensive. I was aware that DeLaney was heavily involved in Project Monarch, not only because he was accessing my sexual personalities again, but because he was helping to pave the way toward my destiny of total mind control.

During Christmas vacation of 1974, my father flew us all to Disney World by route of Tampa, Florida. Ignorant of geography, it did not occur to me that Tampa was out of the way to Disney World until my father drove the rented van to the gates of MacDill Air Force Base. Military personnel met me there and escorted me into the base TOP SECRET high tech mind-control conditioning facility for "behavioral modification" programming. This was the first in what became a routine series of mind-control testing and/or programming sessions on government installations that I would endure throughout my Project Monarch victimization.

Whether I was in a military, NASA, or government building, the procedure for maintaining me under total mind control remained consistent with Project Monarch requirements. This included prior physical and/or psychological trauma; sleep, food, and water deprivation; high voltage electric shock; and hypnotic and/or harmonic programming of specific memory compartments/personalities.

The high tech equipment and methodisms I endured from that time on gave the U.S. government absolute control of my mind and life. I had been literally driven out of my conscious mind and existed only through my programmed subconscious. I lost my free will, ability to reason, and could not think to question anything that was happening to me. I could only do as I was told.

After the MacDill Air Force Base experience, my home life worsened. The controls and conditioning that my father and mother executed on me tightened even more. I was no longer permitted to have any contact with my own brothers and sister (I only had one younger sister at that time). This stopped me in my subconscious efforts to protect them from my father’s abuse, and left me with a desperate, empty aching for the loving relationships I previously shared with them.

Of course, I never was able to protect them any more than I could defend myself or later protect my own daughter. However, until government programming began, I had routinely "baby sat" them every evening and took them for long walks that lasted for hours in my feeble attempt to keep them out of my parents’ range. Subconsciously I believed I was making a difference. The day my youngest brother told my mother he much preferred my company over hers was the day I could no longer be near him or my other brothers and sister.

Apparently I was making enough of a difference that my parents were compelled to separate me from them. I was ordered to my closet-sized bedroom in the garage as soon as I got home from school or work. I could not speak to, look at, or hug my brothers and sister. I was not permitted to eat dinner with my family, although they let me out of my room to set the table, wash dishes, and do other chores. If I ventured from my bedroom to use the bathroom and was caught by my mother, she said, "nobody rattled your cage" and ordered me back to my room in the garage.

In the summer of 1975, my family drove all the way from Michigan to the Teton Mountains of Wyoming. I was ordered to ride in the back storage area of the family Chevy Suburban since 1 was forbidden to associate or communicate with my brothers and sister. So I dissociated into books, or into the metaphorical, hypnotic suggestions from my father and tranced deeper as I watched the prairies seemingly endless sea of "amber waves of grain" streak past my window.

Once when we stopped at a gas station, my father took me inside to show me a stuffed "jackalope" mounted on the wall. Due to my tranced, dissociative state and high suggestibility level, I believed it was indeed a cross between a jack rabbit and antelope. It was 100+ degrees in the Badlands when it cooled down at night. The intense heat of the day accentuated my ever increasing thirst. My father was physically preparing me though water deprivation for the intense tortures and programming I would endure in Wyoming.

Dick Cheney, then White House Chief of Staff to president Ford, later Secretary of Defense to President George Bush, documented member of the Council on Foreign Relations (CFR), and Presidential hopeful for 1996, was originally Wyoming’s only Congressman. Dick Cheney was the reason my family had traveled to Wyoming where I endured yet another form of brutality— his version of "A Most Dangerous Game," or human hunting.

It is my understanding now that A Most Dangerous Game was devised to condition military personnel in survival and combat maneuvers. Yet it was used on me and other slaves known to me as a means of further conditioning the mind to the realization there was "no place to hide," as well as traumatize the victim for ensuing programming. It was my experience over the years that A Most Dangerous Game had numerous variations on the primary theme of being stripped naked and turned loose in the wilderness while being hunted by men and dogs. In reality, all "wilderness" areas were enclosed in secure military fencing whereby it was only a matter of time until I was caught, repeatedly raped, and tortured.

Dick Cheney had an apparent addiction to the "thrill of the sport". He appeared obsessed with playing A Most Dangerous Game as a means of traumatizing mind-control victims, as well as to satisfy his own perverse sexual kinks. My introduction to the game occurred upon arrival at the hunting lodge near Greybull, Wyoming, and it physically and psychologically devastated me.

I was sufficiently traumatized for Cheney’s programming as I stood naked in his hunting lodge office after being hunted down and caught. Cheney was talking as he paced around me, "I could stuff you and mount you like a jack lope and call you a two legged dear. Or I could stuff you with this (he unzipped his pants to reveal his oversized penis) right down your throat, and then mount you. Which do you prefer?"

Blood and sweat became mixed with the dirt on my body and slid like mud down my legs and shoulder. I throbbed with exhaustion and pain as I stood unable to think to answer such a question. "Make up your mind," Cheney coaxed. Unable to speak, I remained silent.

"You don’t get a choice, anyway, I make up your mind for you. That’s why you’re here. For me to make you a’ mind, and make you mine/mind. You lost your mind a long time ago. Now I’m going to give you one. Just like the Wizard (of Oz) gave Scarecrow a brain, the Yellow Brick Road led you here to me. You’ve ’come such a long, long way’ for your brain, and I will give you one,"

The blood reached my shoes and caught my attention. Had I been further along in my programming, I perhaps would never have noticed such a thing or had the capability to think to wipe it away. But so far, I had only been to MacDill and Disney World for government/military programming. At last, when I could speak, I begged, "If you don’t mind, can I please use your bathroom?"

Cheney’s face turned red with rage. He was on me in an instant, slamming my back into the wall with one arm across my chest and his hand on my throat, choking me while applying pressure to the carotid artery in my neck with his thumb. His eyes bulged and he spit as he growled, "If you don’t mind me, I will kill you. I could kill you—Kill you—with my bare hands. You’re not the first and you won’t be the last. I’ll kill you any time I goddamn well please," He flung me on the cot-type bed that was behind me. There he finished taking his rage out on me sexually.

On the Long trip back to Michigan, I lay in a heap behind the scats of the Suburban, nauseated and hurting from Cheney’s brutality and high voltage tortures, plus the whole Wyoming experience. My father stopped by the waterfalls flowing through the Tetons to "wash my brain" of the memory of Cheney, I could barely walk through the woods to the falls for the process as instructed, despite having learned my lessons well from Cheney on following orders.

The next year when our "annual" trip to Disney World rolled around, my father drove, pulling his new Holiday Rambler Royale International trailer. (I slept outside in a tent because I was not permitted inside it since "I wasn’t family".) My father dropped me off en route at the Kennedy Space Center in Titusville, Florida where I was subjected to my first NASA programming. From then on, I was "obsessed" with following the "Yellow Brick Road" to Nashville, Tennessee. Moving to Nashville was all I could talk about. If anyone asked me the question I could not think to ask myself "Why?", I would respond by reiterating it was something "I had to do".

I had gone through the motions of my senior year in a dissociative trance. I became further distanced from religious values by my religion class teacher. Brother Emmett. This was due to his promotion of cannibalism via Pier Paul Reed’s book Alive, and by his teachings at a religious ’corseal’ retreat I attended that included occult ritual at ST. Francis Church. I graduated from Muskegon Catholic Central High School in our bicentennial year of 1976.

I was led by Senator Byrd to revise my plan to attend Hope College like I had promised VanderJagt as a child. This new plan was for me to temporarily attend Muskegon Community College, because my "real education" was to come through mind-control programming-not school. In order to be exhausted, as was necessary for my "real education," I worked three menial jobs in addition to attending college.

During my first semester of college in 1976, I made plans to take a trip to Nashville with my Project Monarch friend from Catholic Central. (She remains an expendable victim to date, and therefore her identity must be protected from public release for her safety.) My father explained that I was to stay at the Fiddler’s Inn in Nashville, see the World Famous Printer’s Alley row of sleazy country music nightclubs, and attend the Grand Ole Opry on Friday night, as ticket arrangements had been made through a "friend," in spite of their scarcity during the Thanksgiving holiday.

I never thought to associate Fiddler’s Inn with Senator Byrd’s fiddle playing when my friend and I arrived in Music City, U.S.A. Nor did 1 find it odd when a country music "star" entertaining at the Black Poodle nightclub in Printer’s Alley began directing my activities. My friend and I were provided with free passes to the Black Poodle to encourage us to return each night where entertainer and CIA operative Jack Greene and his Desperado band were playing.

During breaks between sets, Greene and his band would sit with my friend and me to manipulate our suggestible minds. I was told it was "my destiny" to have met band member, Wayne Cox, who had been trained for paramilitary mercenary operations under Louisiana’s U.S. Senator J, Bennett Johnston, I soon learned that everyone associated with Greene was involved in his CIA "Freedom Train" operations.

When I told Greene that my friend and I would not be returning on Friday night due to attending the Grand Ole Opry, he told us that he would be working the Opry that night. He made arrangements for us to come back stage and see him immediately following his segment. He explained that the "security" guard at the Opry, Nashville Metro Police Lt. Bob Ezell, was a good friend of his and would let us in.

At the Opry, my friend and I sat in the audience watching as Jack Greene introduced his "special guest," U.S. Senator Robert C. Byrd. At the sight of Byrd, I went into a pre-conditioned deep trance and robotically went through the motions of following Greene’s instructions. Once backstage, Greene pointed out his dressing room, which he was sharing with Senator Byrd, and ordered me in. The personality that had been sitting in the audience had perceived Byrd as an entertainer and could not, or would not, think further.

But as I walked into the dressing room and saw Byrd perched on the edge of the mirrored vanity in his boxer shorts, I switched into the child personality that had known him as a U.S. Senator on Mackinac Island since age 13, and responded sexually. Afterward, Byrd was claiming me as "his," excitedly telling me that he had "always wanted his own little witch". I soon learned the enormity of this statement.

Jack Greene’s band member, Wayne Cox, later told me that playing music behind Senator Byrd at the Opry was not the only way he "backed him". He also backed him politically and in Freedom Train operations. Cox then made arrangements for my friend and me to stay the remainder of our trip at his trailer in Hendersonville, Tennessee. There was no choice but to comply.

The following night, after Jack Greene completed his show at the Black Poodle, he drove my friend and me to a nearby participating after-hours club, the Demon’s Den. There, Cox was to pick us up and take us to Hendersonville. Instead, we were slipped a drug and taken "on a tour" of Union Station, Nashville’s then  abandoned train station, where supposedly the only train still running through there was the Freedom Train.

Senator Byrd’s attempted cultivation of superstition through my Catholic schooling should have maximized the impact of the occult ritual I was subjected to in the tower of the old stone and slate turn-of-the-century train depot. But the pain and horror was sufficiently effective in itself—even without my adhering to superstition-to produce the intended mind shattering results. Cox took my friend and me on a "flashlight tour" through the rubble of Union Station, until we came to a homeless man sleeping on the ground.

Cox ordered me to "kiss the railroad bum good-bye," then shot him between the eyes while I was still only inches away1. He then used a machete to chop off the man’s hands, which he put in a zip-lock bag. He then led us up the rickety stairs into the lower of the old depot. There Jack Greene, his band members, and others dressed in black robes were gathered around a black leather alter in a room lit by candles and draped in red velvet. In total shock, I was laid on the alter and subjected to rape and torture while the participants indulged in sex, blood, and cannibalism ritual.

The next day I woke up on Cox’s couch, vaguely aware that I had suffered a "bad nightmare". When I stood up, I passed out from blood loss. I was bleeding profusely from the vagina. It was all I could do to prepare to drive back to Michigan, and my friend was certainly not in a stable frame of mind to help. I did not know what happened to me, nor was I able to question it. I had a new "obsession" on my mind. I had been programmed at the ritual to move to Nashville and marry Cox, as ordered by Senator Byrd.

Back in Michigan, I made the announcement to my parents that I was moving to Nashville to marry Cox, as it was "predestination". What they would not tell me was that my father had just literally SOLD me to Senator Byrd in exchange for lucrative military contracts that made him a millionaire overnight—a millionaire on a sixth grade education—a perverse, child exploiting criminal, immune from prosecution, working as a CIA operative for the U.S, government!

That mind shattering occult ritual I endured in Nashville marked a new life of wealth and prestige for my father white thrusting me into a new phase of my torturous existence-and I had no choice in any of it!

1 Nashville Metropolitan Police Lieutenant Bob Ezell, who also acted in the capacity of Grand Ol’ Opry security guard, covered up the murder.
 

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CHAPTER 5 - TINKERING WITH THE MIND

It was 1977. I was a 19-year-old mind-controlled programmed slave in the CIA/DIA Project Monarch Freedom Train operation, literally owned by U.S. Senate Majority Leader Robert C. Byrd, who was then a 20-year incumbent and on the Senate Appropriations Committee, As Byrd’s "own little witch" (sex slave), I would also become involved in covert government operations. I now understand that this required more memory compartments/personalities than I had developed.

Hence one more reason for the mind shattering occult ritual, and my "predestined" marriage to Cox. In typical Project Monarch structure, Byrd was my "owner" and in control of my life, while Cox became my primary "handler" and followed Byrd’s orders to ensure that I was at key locations and events at appointed times and to maintain me under mind control.

Cox reportedly was not paid cash for his role like my father was. Instead, he either followed orders or would be prosecuted for distributing drugs and being the occult serial killer that he was and is to date. Cox’s primary role was to shatter my mind further through repealed occult trauma as well as father my daughter, Kelly, to be raised in the genetic mind-control studies of Project Monarch.

I moved to Nashville, as ordered, to marry Cox, who took me to the backwoods of his hometown swamp in Chatham, Louisiana for months at a time for occult traumatization. Cox had been brought up in witchcraft by his mother, and admittedly longed for her sexually and ritually. Together they subjected me to their beliefs, which included what equates to a weakened version of mind control used by witches for centuries, anchored in superstition rather than scientific fact.

These superstitious beliefs seemingly conflicted with Cox’s mercenary training to the point that his killing raged out of control. For example, Cox would murder a human through repeated stabbing with a knife, believing that the "departing spirit" and splattered blood gave him power to control my mind. In truth, it was my aversion and subsequent traumatization by the event that caused me to dissociate and trance, leaving my subconscious open to his suggestions and those of others.

During the three years I was with Cox, he ritually impregnated and aborted me six times, consuming several of his own offspring and preserving the others shaped in ceramic for sale in his interstate occult body parts business. Cox’s M.O. for murdering always included removing the hands with a machete, as the "Hands of Glory" he kiln-dried in the ceramic shop of his and his mother’s house were in demand and thus distributed throughout the occult underground supply network. Cox’s protected cocaine and body parts distribution routes included Texas, Arkansas, Mississippi, Tennessee, and Florida.

Cox and I traveled to Florida on several occasions as his mother’s parents lived in Mims, which is only minutes away from the NASA Kennedy Space Center in Titusville. Cox, like my father, made sure I was there for mind-control testing and programming as ordered. Cox perceived me as a "Chosen One," and often used this CIA Project Monarch term when referring to me and for proudly "justifying" his leaving me at the NASA installation.

Cox had a variety of belief systems that he applied to various situations, all of which were superstition based. He believed in spirit communication or "divine guidance" through nature spirits and demons, that Satan must be appeased, that Jesus is an alien, that the Bermuda Triangle is a door to another dimension, and that the end of the world is near. He ’religiously’ carried a Bible with him everywhere-including to occult rituals-quoting scripture like a theologian.

He justified "eating the body and drinking the blood," "being washed in the blood," and even "murdering children" according to the story of God testing Abraham by ordering him to murder his son, Isaac, by knife on an alter. Jim Jones was one of Cox’s idols, as was Charlie Manson, and he touted the Jonestown massacre as a prime example of the "power of (CIA) mind control".

Cox demanded I become a Mormon in the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints. This was to "prove" that Satan was everywhere-particularly in the Monroe, Louisiana Mormon church where he led occult ritual, and in the Hendersonville, Tennessee church that the so-called Freedom Train rolled through.¹

Cox’s determination to instill his religious superstitious beliefs in me was side-tracked by J. Bennett Johnston in his Shreveport, Louisiana office early in the summer of 1978.

Cox’s mother, Mary, had driven us to Johnston’s office near Barksdale Air Force Base as ordered. As she knocked boldly on the obscure metal door, I read the attached metal sign: "General Dynamics Research and Development". A smaller sign near the doorknob read; "Unlawful to enter premises without prior authorization. All violators will be prosecuted under penalty of federal law."

Johnston, wearing a light blue, leisure suit and smelling strongly of body odor, opened the door. "Well, hey Senator," Mary drawled in her backwoods Louisiana dialect, "I brought the children to see you like you said."

Johnston looked at her with annoyed disgust. "I see that," he said matter-of-factly. He then proceeded to instruct Mary to wait outside a moment while he talked with Cox, then to take him on to her home in Monroe where I could be picked up at the Airport a few days later.

Cox and I were ushered into Johnston’s barren military-style furnished office. Several Presidential and military photographs hung on the wall and served as the only decor. Johnston sat on the front of his military issue desk and talked to Cox’s subconscious mind using cryptic, hypnotic Disney Peter Pan theme language,³ as he apparently had done in the past when Cox had a mind left to control.

"As long as your ticker’s running, chat crock-a-dial you’ve been feeding over the years will be running right behind you. (Peter) Pan knew how to stay a step ahead of the game and stop the inevitable process of becoming gator bait himself by offering to give him a hand now and then."

Cox dismembered his murdered victims and distributed the "Hands of Glory" to fellow Satanists and occult traumatized/ Peter Pan theme programmed mercenaries, while feeding "left over" body parts to an alligator that lived in the Swamp behind his house. This was indicative of Cox’s twisted, murderous response to Johnston’s traumatic Peter Pan theme programming... a programming that I was about to experience "first hand".

Cryptically instructing Cox on Senator Byrd’s orders, Johnston continued,

"I’ve got to hand it to that Pan. His livelihood of creating hookers for the Captain (Hook) was indeed lucrative. And speaking of creating hookers, a little Byrd told me that a shift from routine hand-ling to a theme that is alien could prove lucrative to you."

Revealing his intent to ensure my military mind control programming, Johnston told him,

"I’ll lay a little groundwork and set the pattern for countdown. Then I’ll send her out to launch for you, and it’s your job to man the craft from there..."

Cox was ordered out of Johnston’s office, and he turned his full attention to me. When alone with the Senator, Johnston manipulated my mind, and ultimately my beliefs and perceptions, for future programming. He referred to a picture of himself shaking hands with unknown Navy brass as he dramatically told me,

"I was there that fateful day in 1943 when a hole was ripped in the fabric of time through what later became known as the Philadelphia Experiment. All those fine boys vanished along with their ship in a bizarre twist of events that parallels the Atlantis disappearances. A vortex was created in an effort to slip dimensions and become invisible to the enemy. It was a success beyond the highest expectations and launched us all into universal travel. It is no wonder at all that we have had a man on the moon.

 

Traveling to distant planets and galaxies is Mickey Mouse stuff in comparison to the high-tech wizardry of trans-dimensional travel. Trans-dimensional travel circumvents all measures of time, including distance and speed. When the fabric of time was torn, we opened ourselves up to intergalactic travel—both in and out of this dimension - and in and out of the future, as well as the past.

 

We can alter the course of history by traveling back in time to alter events, or we can blast off into the future and gain wisdom and knowledge of events yet to come. We can control the future by controlling the past. At present, this is a relatively easy task according to the theory of relativity and abilities gained through the Philadelphia Experiment. I came back an ET (extraterrestrial) myself. And our ship returned to this Earth as a spaceship.³

 

I gained the keys to the universe on that fateful day, and I carry them with me now, sharing only a Key or two at a time with those who are Chosen. You are a Chosen One (Johnston was deliberately interfacing with Rite to Remain Silent conditioning), and therefore must learn the ins and outs of interplanetary travel. Your mission is trans-dimensional. You can span infinite dimensions by learning from me. Take it from me, you’re going places, kid.

 

And I’ll teach you to get there by riding the light. I’ll teach you the groundwork, and you do the light work. The key to the universe lies in the speed of light. The only way to travel is by beam of light. You will learn to go to the light... Your mission is to learn how to Tinker with time. I’m going to take you on that journey myself. Come with me now. It’s time we were leaving this plane and boarding another."

Johnston took me the short distance from his General Dynamics Corporation provided office to the Barksdale Air Force Base airfield. He was apparently well known at Barksdale, and a small cargo plane was ready to lake us to our destination-Tinker Air Force Base in Oklahoma.

Once we were airborne, Johnston accessed my sex programmed personalities for his own aggressive perversion. His use of cocaine further accentuated his hyperactive demeanor as he brutally slung me around the back of the small plane while he had sex with me. At one point the pilot hollered from the cockpit "Hey, you’re creating turbulence. Knock it off, will you."

Johnston laughed and responded, "What the fuck do you think I’m doing?" By the time we arrived at Tinker A.F.B., my arm was beginning to show a dark bruise that extended from my shoulder to my elbow. A uniformed man greeted us as we walked across the airfield. Johnston apparently knew him quite well, and referred to him as "Cap’n" (which tied in with the Peter Pan theme programming I was about to endure).

When he noticed my arm, Cap’n reminded him,

"Hey, that’s not necessary, you know."

"Yeah, I know. Take care of it for me. Here..." Johnston took the straps of my tank top and pulled them down around my forearms (which still could not cover the bruise.)

"There, that just about covers it." He smiled and continued, "You look like a Southern belle that way rather than a damned ol’ Yankee anyway," Cap’n said, "She’ll be a Tinker-belle by the time we’re through here today."

Then, referring to Johnston’s primary purpose in actually escorting me to Tinker he asked, "How are your South American operations progressing?"
"I’ve got to talk to you about that," Johnston answered. The two talked as though they had worked in tandem on given mercenary operations/assignments in the past. "I may need a few of your boys to back me on something."
"Back you, or cover you?" the Cap’n retorted.
Johnston laughed, "Both if you’ll front the operation."

Johnston had previously "justified" his use of Tinker (Peter Pan theme) programmed mind-controlled mercenaries to me by saying, "Mercenaries are missionaries who follow their inner guidance system rather than their old Uncle Sam. Politics hinder the route to freedom, and these boys slip under international laws, undetected, to carry out the work the military boys only dream of doing.."

I was escorted away from the two by a nurse, who purported to be tending to my injured arm. In fact, she was preparing me for the "Tinker-belle cage"⁴— an electrified metal cage with an electrified grid bottom. Locked inside, I was subjected to high, direct current voltage to compartmentalize the Peter Pan theme mind-control programming that I endured. Like Peter Pan’s Tinkerbelle, I learned to "ride the light" as a means of travel.⁵

Additionally, my instilled Tinker-belle theme mind manipulation included a sense of Never-Never-land timelessness that was rooted to my "natural" inability to comprehend time due to my MPD/D1D.

Back in Louisiana, Cox and I shared a subconscious understanding of Peter Pan themes and "riding the light". The difference between us was that Cox consciously activated Tinker Air Force Base programming within Johnston’s band of mercenaries, while my trance was perpetual whereby I could "Never-Never-Land."⁶

I was with Cox on numerous occasions when he was running guns and/or cocaine, and activating specified mercenaries for operations as instructed by Johnston, In the course of these travels I saw numerous underground arsenals and stockpiled weapons that were known to Senator Johnston, but were not on. military installations. I was also privy to government sanctioned cocaine operations.

On one such cocaine run in 1979, I traveled with Cox to a remote area in the Ouachita National Forest near Hot Springs, Arkansas to "watch for fairies like Tinker-belle" and "ride the light".

We sat in the brush near a railroad track until we saw a light approaching from the Eastern sky. At the time I thought I would be "riding the light" as I was led to believe, but in retrospect I recall my personalities being deliberately switched and a helicopter landing in a nearby clearing. Cox and I unloaded approximately 200-400 pounds of cocaine from the van he had driven, and stacked it in the helicopter.

We were then flown to a small airport that appeared to be no more than a dark, fenced-in clearing where I saw a row of metal buildings that looked like mini-warehouses. While the cocaine was unloaded into a warehouse, Cox and I were taken by car to a nearby grey stone hold. The driver led us upstairs, and knocked on the Penthouse door.

"Yeah," a voice answered, "I got a Tinker-belle and a Peter Pan here to see you, Sir," the driver called.

"Send ’em in." Cox and I walked into the suite where then Governor of Arkansas Bill Clinton was shuffling through a briefcase. Clinton and Johnston were cohorts in illegal covert operations that emanated from Tinker Air Force Base.

Cox spoke up. "Senator Johnston said a little (Senator) Byrd told him that you are one of Ours."’

"So what does that make you?" Clinton asked impatiently.

"A Chosen One," Cox nodded his head toward me.

Clinton asked me, "Chosen by whose order?"

I cryptically delivered the proper coded response, which cued Clinton to proceed. "What brings you here?" he demanded. Interpreting his question literally as is "natural" for programmed MPD/DID slaves, I answered, "I rode the light, Sir."

Clinton rolled his eyes, and looked back over at Cox who was nervously rocking back and forth as he so often did. "State your business," Clinton ordered.

"Uh," Cox cleared his throat, habitually picked his nose as he rocked back and forth and said, "Well, uh..." Clinton looked disgusted. "Get him the fuck out of here!" he ordered the driver. Cox was immediately escorted out, "That’s better," Clinton said. Using standard Jesuit hand signals and cryptic language, he triggered/switched me and accessed a previously programmed message.⁷

"Senator Johnston sent me to give this to you." I handed Clinton a thin, large brown envelope, "And I have some fairy dust guaranteed to make you fly high." I took the personal stash of cocaine that Johnston was sharing with Clinton from my pocket.

Clinton snorted two lines of the coke immediately. He smiled. "Tell Ben I’m impressed." He showed me to the door.

The severe torture and mind-control programming that I was enduring at Tinker Air Force Base had prepared me for this simple "mission" and many others. Although Cox’s out-of-control occult serial killings poly-fragmented my multiple personalities as intended by Byrd, it was Johnston’s alien theme mind conditioning that locked me into absolute robotic helplessness.

After all, had I been capable of rationalizing, I would nave found that the thought of interdimensional travel and aliens was no more bizarre to me that Cox’s murderous actions or having found out pornography king Jerry Ford held the office of President.

When my daughter, Kelly, was born in February of 1980, Cox’s former employer Jack Greene, traveled to Louisiana to meet with me in keeping with his role as Nashville’s CIA Freedom Train "conductor". He took me aside and explained that since Cox had fulfilled his (genetic) role in producing Kelly, Senator Byrd had ordered me back to Nashville. Greene talked at length, hypnotically reviving my original programmed "obsession" to move to Nashville.

He told me that Cox had proven too insane to follow orders anymore as was evidenced by my extremely poor health (much of my hair bad fallen out) and by the stench of decaying human flesh that permeated the area surrounding his remote Chatham, Louisiana swamp house.

If I had had a mind of my own, I know in retrospect I would have felt as though I had been released from a prison dungeon. But I could only respond by telling Cox matter-of-factly that I had received "divine guidance" to move to Nashville at once to a home that awaited me. Cox had no choice but to comply with Byrd’s orders. Kelly and I moved to Tennessee when she was only three months old, and Cox temporarily moved with us in order to apprise our new handler of the latest details of our victimization.

Within weeks, Cox moved back to Chatham, Louisiana to live with his mother (even to this date). Now he reportedly raises goats for sacrifice and carries on his occult serial killing activities unhindered due to his immunity from prosecution because of whom and what he and his mother know.

1 Substantial information regarding the saturation of occultism in the Mormon church is a published fact, circulated among the Bishopric, then released by Bishop Pace in on effort to restore morality and freedom of thought to church members.

2 Senator Johnston’s dual and triple cryptic language perplexed me at the time. In retrospect, I understand how this component of mind control allowed for undetected proliferation of criminal covert activity, even when overheard by strangers, to the extent that I believed it must be occurring in "another dimension" as I was told.

3 Johnston "validated" his ploy in my mind by arranging for me to see his "space-ship"-a then TOP SECRET experimental aircraft which would eventually be known as a Stealth fighter- at a military installation near Baton Rouge. The classified triangular Stealth was so alien to me at the time that it looked more like a spaceship than the U.S. fighter plane it actually is. This, in combination with his inhumane demeanor and my previously instilled belief in trans- dimensional travel, convinced me he was the "ET" he purported to be.

4 I understand this is referred to as a Woodpecker grid.

5 "Riding the Light" scrambled my future experience of being transported by military helicopter or airplane to robotically carry out some program for the government. This "trance-dimensional" travel caused my earthly experiences to be perceived as having occurred in another dimension.

6 I remained in a Post Traumatic Stress Disordered (PTSD) trance.

7 Same Jesuit reference used to describe Pierre Trudeau.
 

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CHAPTER 6 - UNITED STATES MILITARY &NASA MIND-CONTROL TRAINING

Soon after moving to Tennessee, I learned that Senator Byrd had simply exchanged one living hell for another for me. My new mind-control handler, CIA operative and country music ventriloquist/ stage hypnotist Alex Houston, seemed only to pick up where Cox had left off. As "destined," Kelly and I moved into a run-down old trailer on Houston’s property, which adjoined Jack Greene’s farm in Goodletsville, Tennessee. I was subjected to further occult ritual on Greene’s farm, and was ritually impregnated and aborted again, this time by Houston.

A difference between Cox and Houston was the superstition factor; Houston knew exactly what he was doing and why he was doing it, in accordance with tried and proven scientific U.S. Government mind-control research and development. I gleaned this knowledge from conversations I overheard between him and "those in the know". Alex Houston was 26 years older than I, and claimed to have gained his knowledge of stage hypnosis and government mind-control methods from the military while entertaining overseas in Bob Hope’s USO tours.

After the tour, Houston reportedly moved to Washington, D.C. where he and his alter-ego dummy, Elemer, were regulars on the Jimmy Dean television show in the ’60s.¹ According to Houston, he was regularly booked to entertain in officers" club son military bases due to his involvement in covert government operations. During the brief interim period that Cox resided on Houston’s farm with us, he played music behind government mind-controlled slave Louise Mandrell and her husband/handler, R.C. Bannon.

Cox had previously worked with Louise’s sister, Barbara Mandrell, at the onset of her government sponsored career in the1960s, traveling overseas with her in the same U.S,O. tours that launched Houston’s career. Irby Mandrell, the Mandrells’ father and manager, reportedly sexually abused all three of his daughters and eagerly thrust them into their mind-controlled existence much the same way my father had sold me. His daughters, too, were owned by U.S. Senator Robert C. Byrd.

Cox was soon fired from his position with Louise due to his insanity. Once when Houston was traveling with the Mandrells as he so often did throughout the years, Irby Mandrell relayed the events that prompted his firing of Cox. He told Houston and I that Cox had become an embarrassment to him while traveling.

"I knew he was weird," Irby Mandrell said. "That’s OK. I can live with that. But when he pitched a tent behind the hotel so he could hear the trumpets sound, signaling him to march to Missouri,² I said, ’Start marching, son. You’re done. You’re through in Nashville. Don’t ever come back.’ That’s it, he was done."

Houston reminisced with Mandrell about the U.S.O. days, and inquired as to how he had tolerated Cox back when he played music behind Barbara.

"Oh, yeah. I remember he (Cox) had somewhat of a brain back then." Irby Mandrell continued, "Barbara was just a kid back then with the talent of a full blown star. I thought she had what it takes to make it in the industry. Then the Byrd came along and introduced us to the latest in technology."

Houston interrupted, "Are you talking about (music) equipment or the kind they’ve got in Huntsviile (Alabama’s NASA mind-control training center)?"

"Both," Mandrell replied. "But it was Huntsville that launched her to the stars. The doors opened wide after that. Byrd took a lot of pride in Barbara, and the doors just kept opening. With my baby’s talent and the Byrd’s influence on her mind and career, there was no way we could lose."

When Houston became my appointed mind-control handler in 1980, Byrd’s influence on my mind boosted Houston’s "entertainment" career. His travels had expanded to accommodate covert drug and money laundering operations across the U.S., in Mexico, in Canada, and throughout the Caribbean.

Houston had, and has, a great deal of "no show" money, but I was never permitted access to it. Poverty was one more means of control I endured, as slaves like myself were not afforded the freedoms that having money allows. When I was working three menial jobs during college, all of my money was taken from me by my parents. All money earned by Cox’s cocaine and body parts enterprises was reinvested in the coven and drugs, leaving us dependent on charities for our basic necessities.

With Houston, I had to "earn" every penny I spent on groceries and necessities over and over again, which made "earning my keep" a deliberately impossible cycle. This kept me financially dependent and further hindered my ability to escape, even if I had known enough to attempt it.

My innate protective maternal instincts as a mother may have been accentuated due to my past unsuccessful attempts to protect my brothers and sisters (I now had two sisters). It was my desperate need to keep Kelly safe that drove me to the point of "fight or flight" when I was transferred to Houston. I had long ago lost my ability to "fight," but my new maternal instincts compelled me to "flight". I did all I could to save Kelly and myself from Houston and her fate in Project Monarch.

Since I had no ability to reason and was amnesic, I "fled" to my parents’ new house in affluent Grand Haven, Michigan, I had no concept of what I was running from or to. I arrived with my baby daughter in my arms, the tattered clothes on our backs, and what few donated belongings I had acquired for Kelly. Within a few days, my parents received and followed Senator Byrd’s instructions, and turned me back over to Houston—who, in turn, sent me back to Louisiana for further conditioning.

After three more months of intense, nonstop tortures by Cox, I could not think to follow maternal instincts and barely knew my own name. I had no idea how old I was, where I was, how long I had been there, and what had happened to Kelly during that time, Kelly’s own testimony and current programmed poly fragmented Multiple Personality/Dissociative Identity Disorder reflects the high tech, sophisticated conditioning and torturous trauma she endured during this and numerous ensuing times that we were separated. When I was returned to Houston as orchestrated by Byrd, my brain contained a series of new compartments ready to be programmed and led.

Intensive mind-control behavior programming began at once, and Houston ensured that I was taken to my appointed destinations under the guise of his travels in the country music industry. In the early 1980s, my base programming was instilled at Fort Campbell, Kentucky by U.S. Army Lt. Colonel Michael Aquino.

Aquino holds a TOP SECRET clearance in the Defense Intelligence Agency’s Psychological Warfare Division (Psy Ops). He is a professed Neo-Nazi, the founder of the Himmler inspired satanic Temple of Set, and has been charged with child ritual and sexual abuse at the Presidio Day Care in San Francisco, California.

But like my father and Cox, Aquino remains "above the law" while he continues to traumatize and program CIA destined young minds in a quest to reportedly create the "superior race" of Project Monarch Mind-Controlled slaves. I quickly teamed that Aquino did not adhere to his profoundly professed occult superstition any more than I did. His "satanic power" was in the form of numerous variations of high voltage stun guns,⁵ which he used on me regularly.

Although Aquino used occultism (blood trauma) as a trauma base, his programming was high tech and "clean"—not muddled in a proverbial witches’ brew of ignorance. He quickly dispelled the Cox influence, and began programming me according to Byrd’s specifications as his "own little witch" for sadistic sex, covert CIA drug muling, black mail, and prostitution operations.

During the three months I was back with Cox, a muscle in my upper vaginal wall was cut and dropped in preparation for Houston to flesh carve a hideous witch’s face ⁴ for Senator Byrd’s perversion. Aquino provided the ancient instructions on how to mutilate me, and Houston used silver nitrate and hot extract knives to carve the details of the face without any form of anesthesia. By flexing the muscle downward, the face protruded out of my vagina. Not only did this surgery give Byrd a vagina suited to his minute, underdeveloped penis, it also provided an equitable "curiosity" to be displayed over and over again in both commercial and non-commercial pornography and prostitution.

On the 1981 anniversary of John F. Kennedy’s assassination, I was forced to "marry" Alex Houston for appearance sake. Earlier that month when I had been taken to Washington, D.C for prostitution purposes, Byrd informed me that I would actually be "marrying" him when I "pledged my vows" to Houston.

"It is a covenant between the two of us," Byrd had said, "It is me that you will honor and obey ’til death do us part," Byrd then instructed me to pick up my wedding dress from a nearby D.C. store. Throughout the years, Houston often joked about the significance of my Washington, D.C. wedding dress— which was depicted in pornographic photos and a commercial video to "commemorate our wedding night", Alex Houston’s "best man," Jimmy Walker, was also a photographer for Larry Flynt’s sexually graphic commercial pornography magazine, Hustler.

When I met Byrd after the ceremony at Nashville’s Opryland Hotel as ordered, he presented me with a "wedding gift"—a rose patterned crystal crucifix deliberately designed to anchor "our wedding" in my Catholic/Vatican instilled beliefs. The Larry Flynt photos depicting me in my wedding dress with the crystal crucifix to "commemorate our wedding night," was standard lock-in procedure for all mind-controlled slaves I knew who were forced to "marry" their handlers/owners.

Houston’s booking agent, Reggie Mac (MacLaughlin), of United Talent and later of MacFadden Agency in Nashville, Tennessee, had been booking CIA involved country music acts into key locations to aid the execution of covert government operations. For example, Houston’s ventriloquist act "Alex and Elemer" would be scheduled to perform at a county or state fair near Washington, D.C., where I would be picked up by car or helicopter and escorted to the White House or the Pentagon.

The ensuing activities would be compartmentalized in my memory in a manner that caused me to believe I had simply been traveling in the country music industry, and no one "back home" would be suspect of my absence. Another example would be that Houston "entertained" at Byrd’s West Virginia State Fair every year, which gave a legitimate appearance to my presence there, when in fact I was being prostituted to the Senator I had "married."

During the early ’80s, Reggie MacLaughlin primarily booked Houston into areas that were conducive to my mind-control programming with Aquino. I was first subjected to Aquino’s tortures and programming in Fort Campbell, Kentucky; Fort McClellen in Anniston, Alabama; and most frequently, at Redstone Arsenal and Marshall Space Flight Center in Huntsville, Alabama.

Military mind-control was fast, effective, and highly technological, but it was the NASA programming that launched me as a "Presidential Model". Even though Aquino instilled my programming on both military and NASA installations, he had access to the latest technological advancements and techniques through NASA. These included mind foolers such as sensory deprivation tanks, virtual reality, flight simulators, and harmonics.

By the age of two, Kelly had already been subjected to Aquino and his programming through these latest technological advancements, which shattered her fragile young mind before her base personality had a chance to form. Rather than use occultism on Kelly, Aquino traumatized her through sexual assault and high voltage tortures of the mind and body. She, like I, to this day carries numerous scars from this "non satanic" abuse base.

I know, from years of research, NASA technology and Aquino’s programming, combined with the Project Monarch standard sleep, food, and water deprivation and high voltage, made Kelly a subject of state of the art genetically multigenerational MPD/D1D psychological mind-control engineering.

In 1981, Byrd personally joined Aquino in Huntsville, Alabama during one of our programming sessions. NASA cooperated fully with Byrd on any and everything, since it was Byrd’s Senate Appropriations Committee that determined how much and/or whether NASA received government funding. I lay naked on the cold metal table, tranced and photographically recording every word and detail of my programming and every word that Byrd and Aquino not so privately discussed.

Byrd was providing Aquino with specific details of certain perversions he wanted me equipped to fulfill or perform. Additionally, they talked about scrambling my immediate memory with two private porn films they were arranging to have produced locally. These were titled How To Divide a Personality and How To Create a Sex Slave. These films are the kind NASA became involved in producing for the dual purpose of "scrambling" memory and documenting their mind control procedures. The resident Huntsville, Alabama pornographers were two local cops, one of which was (and is) a Sergeant.⁵ This served NASA and the CIA well when cover-up was necessary.

The How To Create a Sex Slave film depicts the common "spin" programming, which in essence is the combination to unlocking or accessing a specific programmed act. For example, the compartment of the mind that holds memory of incest is stimulated to open when the original abuse is eminent. Seeing my father’s penis would "trigger" a specific response, supposedly opening the neuron pathways of my brain to allow the part of my brain that dealt with his actions before to deal with them again.

With "spin" programming, the trigger of seeing my father’s penis is replaced with a combination of specific verbal commands and a specific number of physical spins so that anyone with the "combination" could access that particular part of my brain. The part of my mind containing "knowledge" of the original abuse by my father learned to "like" painful, sadistic sex. Senator Byrd wanted me programmed in such a way that he could decide if he wanted me to scream and cry when he whipped me, or if he wanted me to become sexually aroused and "beg" for more.

After programming, when I met with Byrd, I would "dance" like a music box dancer, twirling round and round until Byrd’s fiddle music stopped. My mind precisely calculated how many revolutions I had made whether I was capable of conscious counting or not (much like a normal person wakes up at a particular time without an alarm clock), and the desired results were produced as accessed.

This is but one simplified example of sex programming, and I was programmed for more than sex. But this particular incident of programming at the U.S. Army Redstone Arsenal would change my existence entirely and set the stage for my role in covert government black, budget-type operations as a "Presidential Model".

Seeing and/or knowing that Kelly was being tortured and programmed proved to be a detriment to my own mind-control programming, such that the common "cross-programming" of mother and daughter was rarely viable. In the fall of 1982, Houston was scheduled to perform at the State Fair in Senator Byrd’s home state of West Virginia, Byrd arrived at our hotel with LT. COL. Aquino, who took Kelly with him, supposedly for programming purposes, I was left alone in the hotel room with Byrd, whose KKK affiliation fueled his rage over my having been recently prostituted to black entertainer and CIA operative Charlie Pride.

Although I had had no control over the situation to begin with, Byrd expended his fury on me rather than on Houston who was ultimately responsible for the incident. He took out his whip and began beating me as he had so many times before. Only this time it seemed to last forever,

Byrd was still whipping me when Aquino returned with my tranced and traumatized daughter. I regained consciousness enough to pull myself up off the floor when I heard Kelly’s hysterical cries. Byrd ordered me to the bathroom for a cold shower to stop the bleeding. My body could not carry out his orders, and I collapsed again in the bathroom, smearing blood all over the floor. Kelly’s cries again revived me, and I crawled to the door to find Byrd sexually assaulting her and Aquino disrobing to join them.

One small window in the bathroom appeared to be a possible means of escape to obtain help, but Byrd caught me and knocked me to the floor. The whole bathroom was smeared in blood by the time he threw me into the shower and turned the cold water on to slow the bleeding.

Later that afternoon, Kelly and I stood hand in hand in the afternoon sun at the State Fair where Senator Byrd was about to make a speech to his constituents. My blouse stuck to my freshly whipped skin as Byrd walked onto the stage, and the crowd cheered.

Although Byrd periodically sexually abused Kelly throughout her Project Monarch victimization, the horrific incident in West Virginia was the last time I was able to instinctively think to respond at all. Aquino’s mind-control programming further insured it, as did Byrd’s access to high tech mind-control equipment via West Virginia’s Jesuit College, where he claimed the role of "Head Friar".⁶

Kelly has reported enduring much sexual abuse by both Byrd and Aquino. Aquino apparently incorporated sexual abuse with his mind-control programming and sex training of her, and shared more such events with Byrd. It was also my experience that Byrd’s sexual perversions were heightened when Aquino shared in the assault. Traumatic events such as this one in West Virginia reinforced my own programming through conditioning, and further locked me in to Byrd’s seemingly inescapable control.

The majority of my programming, as well as a large part of Kelly’s, was again Oz theme based. This means the combination of codes, keys and triggers to access me were related to L. Frank Baum’s story, The Wizard Of Oz. Whether or not it was Baum’s intention (or for that matter Walt Disney’s, Lewis Carroll’s, etc.), it is evident that his psychologically intense story was used for manipulating minds.

Much of The Wizard Of Oz lends itself to themes commonly used by perpetrators. For example, nearly all MPD/DIDs have suffered the loss of pets during ritualized torture. And all of Baum’s primary character Dorothy’s nightmarish experiences "over the rainbow in Oz" stemmed from her desire to risk her own life to protect her threatened pet. Abusers use this lesson to condition the victim to drop all resistance and cooperate or "I’ll get you, my pretty, and your little dog (or child) too."

The "over the rainbow" scramble of dreams vs. reality provides abusers a theme by which to manipulate an MPD’s subconscious perception of switching personalities. Oftentimes this theme is transdimensional as is Oz, or that which was just experienced was "just a bad dream" like Dorothy was told upon her awakening in her own bed back in Kansas.

CIA cryptic language is manipulation of the English language such that words have a double meaning (aka ’double binds’ in mental health terminology.) It works much the way as communication through "inside jokes", among people familiar with each other. Perhaps this is a reason for the government’s use of professional comedians as slave handlers.

Since mind-controlled slaves’ minds function consciously through their subconscious, which has no way of discerning fantasy from reality or intended meaning from literal meaning, cryptic dual level language is especially effective. Many CIA covert operations I was involved in occurred in public. Anyone who overheard the conversation would have discerned something very different from what actually "trance-spired".

For example, one of my Washington, D.C. Secret Service escorts linked arms with me like Dorothy did with her companions when walking the Yellow Brick Road. This would have appeared to be normal behavior, or even romantic, to outsiders. But to me it was a signal to "stay the course" (Bush’s quote) and follow directions. Arm in arm we walked through the crowded Air and Space Museum of the Smithsonian to the nearby NASA headquarters.

There he read the "Service Entrance" sign on the door accentuating syllables ever so slightly so that I heard him cryptically command, "Serve-us, En-Trance".

1 Jimmy Dean is knowledgeable of, and a willing participant in criminal covert activity including the use of mind-controlled slaves.

2 "Marching to Missouri" is a Mormon based belief that interfaced with the CIA’S FACTION OF THE COUNTRY MUSIC industry being transferred to Branson, Missouri in the mid 1980s.

3 120,000-volt stun guns leave two indented prod marks or moles two inches apart, while the cylindrical stun gun USED primarily in the vagina and rectum leaves prod marks/moles 3/4 of an inch apart.. A look into trash-magazine publisher Larry Flint’s Hustler will show prod marks on the mind-controlled slaves he photographs, particularly on the throat, near the lips. and on the back.

4 The "witch’s face" has also been referred to as that of a baphomet and Jesuit monk.

5 I photo identified the Sergeant and his (jailer) officer in 1990, and Mark’s and my lives were threatened through then-District Attorney, now U.S. Representative, Bud Cramer (D. Huntsville, Alabama) of the Congressional Permanent Intelligence Committee as a result of this revelation!

6 To a literal mind-controlled MPD/DID slave, the term "Head Priar" equates to "head frier", meaning high voltage to the brain.

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