Confessions of a White House sex slave, MKULTRA victim

EXCERPTS

. . .Operation Shell Game was one of the more significant and informative covert operations in which I had been forced to participate.

My role began one cold, rainy day when Houston dropped me off at the Washington Monument where I was met by two agents, who triggered me to go with them by flashing their IDs. They escorted me to the large White House office where I had first met Cheney to "audition" for the Hands-On Mind Control demonstrations some years before. As usual, Cheney and Reagan were drinking, this time to excess for so early in the day. Reagan's cheeks were flushed and his voice slurred as he greeted me, "Well, hello, Kitten. Dick and I were just discussing the plight of the Contras since this Ollie North thing broke out." Cheney's alcoholic foul mood was immediately apparent. He was agitated as usual at Reagan's informality in my presence. Apparently I had come in during a serious discussion about Iraq-Contra as Reagan's mood was more somber than I had ever seen it. He took a drink and looked out the window. "Americans believe in their country—baseball, hot dogs, and Ollie North." Cheney snorted a laugh at what seemed to be an ongoing joke between them about "hot dogs and Ollie North." Reagan continued, "And I believe in the Contra cause and all that we have accomplished. And I'm damn proud of it! It's not 'Law and Order'. No, it's Order and the Law. Order must come first because without it, law would be ineffective. Sometimes we must rise above and beyond the law to establish that order (he glanced seriously at Cheney)—or a new (world) order. As President, that is my responsibility. With order, through democracy by spreading democracy throughout the world. With order, there is peace. Right now in Nicaragua the people are crying out for democracy, for peace, and I cannot turn a deaf ear to them. Not even in view of Ollie North's troubles. True Americans know he is a hero. That's why we must rise above the law to establish order by fulfilling the wishes, the hopes, the dreams of those brave men fighting for freedom by doing our part in spreading democracy." Reagan was gesturing into the air, apparently lost in the poetry of his own ranting.

. . .

Cheney took me back to the White House office where we had started. He and Reagan shared another drink. Reagan patted my hair back in place where Cheney had pulled it, which made me feel safe somehow since I could not comprehend that he was behind my ordeal with Cheney. Reagan switched my personality to where I no longer regarded him as "Chief,' but instead as "Uncle Ronnie." He did this by reaching into his Jelly Belly jar and giving me one. Certain colors and flavors triggered certain programmed responses. Uncle Ronnie must have had other "Kittens" conditioned to the military green watermelon ones because he kept an excess amount of these in his numerous jars.

Cheney said, "How in the hell you drink cognac and eat those goddamn jelly beans is beyond me.

Reagan responded, "Well, Dick, you don't have to have a Jelly Belly if you don't want to. I was just giving one to Kitten, here."

"Damn right I don't have to have a Jelly Belly, but you're going to have a jelly belly if you keep that shit up." Cheney finished his drink.

Reagan chuckled, "Now, you know I watch my figure... "

"Figure this," Cheney interrupted. "What are you going to do with the Contras?" Cheney slammed down his drink and headed for the door.

. . .

At the end of the second hole, ex-president Gerald Ford said, "I'd like to have a word with you." He took me over to some trees off the fairway and turned to me with his arms crossed over his bulging chest, raised himself up taller, and bore his shark-like eyes into mine. "Lend me your ear". I had the Baby's Ear Shell with me as ordered, took it out of my back pocket and handed it to Ford. He began talking as though I were a machine and he was dictating a message.

. . .

Hillary was fully clothed and stretched out on the bed sleeping when Hall's wife and I arrived. "Hillary, I brought you something you'll really enjoy. Kind of an unexpected surprise. Bill ordered her out of the meeting and I took her to my bedroom and made an interesting discovery. She is literally a two-faced (referring to my vaginal mutilation carving) bitch."

"Hmm?" Hillary opened her eyes and sleepily roused herself. "Show me."

Hall's wife ordered me to take my clothes off while Hillary watched. "Is she clean?" Hillary asked, meaning disease free.

"Of course, she's Byrd's," she responded, continuing the conversation as if I were not there. "Plus, I heard Houston say something about her being a Presidential Model, whatever the hell that's supposed to mean."

"It means she's clean," Hillary said matter-of-factly as she stood up.

I was not capable of giving thought to such things back then, but I am aware in retrospect that all Presidential Model slaves I knew seemed to have an immunity to social diseases. It was a well known fact in the circles I was sexually passed around in that government level mind-controlled sex slaves were "clean" to the degree that none of my abusers took precautions such as wearing condoms.

Hall's wife patted the bed and instructed me to display the mutilation. Hillary exclaimed, "God!" and immediately began performing oral sex on me. Apparently aroused by the carving in my vagina, Hillary stood up and quickly peeled out of her matronly nylon panties and pantyhose. Uninhibited despite a long day in the hot sun, she gasped, "Eat me, oh, god, eat me now." I had no choice but to comply with her orders, and Bill Hall's wife made no move to join me in my distasteful task. Hillary had resumed examining my hideous mutilation and performing oral sex on me when Bill Clinton walked in. Hillary lifted her head to ask, "How'd it go?"

Clinton appeared totally unaffected by what he walked into, tossed his jacket on a chair and said. "It's official. I'm exhausted. I'm going to bed."

. . .

Boxcar Willie was one of the primary ground level contacts that Bill Hall made after Clinton convinced him to cash in on the cocaine benefits of the country music industry transfer. Houston and Boxcar Willie discussed Hall's lucrative dealings throughout the years in my presence while traveling the country together, billed on the same shows, including performances at the Swiss Villa Amphitheater. I had much contact with Boxcar Willie personally since my government sponsored cocaine runs often coincided and intermeshed with his. But I never knew Boxcar Willie as well as my daughter, Kelly, knew him. Kelly has named Boxcar Willie as one of her primary sexual abuses in three different mental institutions, and has voiced frustration at the lack of justice. "Why am I the one locked up while my abusers remain free?" she constantly pleads. I assure her I am doing all I can to blow the whistle on Boxcar Willie for her, and expose his role in transferring the country music industry to close proximity of the Lampe, Missouri CIA cocaine operation as outlined by Bill Clinton.

. . .

It was a sunny, fall day in 1983 when U.S. Congressman Guy VanderJagt met with my CIA operative mind-control handler, Alex Houston, my then 3 ½ year old daughter, Kelly, and me on the steps of the U.S. Senate in Washington, D.C. Kelly appeared familiar with VanderJagt, although I had never previously remembered seeing her in his company. Even so, I could not think to realize he was, in fact, sexually abusing her as he had me when I was a child. VanderJagt knelt on one knee in front of her to talk with her, assuring her that "today was a special day" because she would "see Uncle George (Bush) while mommy sees Uncle Ronnie (Reagan)." He stood up and took her by the hand, saying in Alice in Wonderland cryptic language, "Let's go on an Adventure together" and led her quietly and robotically away.

. . .

Bush was wearing canvas boat shoes and a cardigan sweater as he knelt on one knee in front of Kelly on order to talk to her on her level. Bush used the children's television program Mr. Rogers' Neighborhood to scramble/confuse young victim's (like Kelly's) memory of contact with him and his sexual abuse. His physical resemblance to TV's Fred Rogers was deliberately exaggerated by his choice of clothes and mannerisms, and is further compounded by his developed vocal impersonation. Using his best Mr. Rogers voice he said, "Come here, Little One. I want to ask you something. Do you watch Mr. Rogers' Neighborhood?

. . .

Bush stood up and took her hand. "C'mon. Let me know you my Neighborhood." He led her out the door.

Kelly became violently physically ill after her induction into George Bush's "Neighborhood" and from every sexual encounter she had with him thereafter. She ran 104-6 degree temperatures, vomited and endured immobilizing headaches for an average of three days (as is consistent with high voltage trauma). These were the only tell-tale evidences aside from the scarring burns left on her skin. Houston forbade me to call a doctor, and Kelly forbade me to comfort her, pitifully complaining that her head "hurt too bad to even move." Kelly often complained of severe kidney pain, and her rectum usually bled for a day or two after Bush sexually abused her. My own mind-control victimization rendered me unable to help or protect her. Seeing my child in such horrible condition drove my own wedge of insanity in deeper, perpetuating my total inability to affect her needs until our rescue by Mark Phillips in 1988.

. . .

Reagan said, "George is like a director. He makes sure the stage is set to implement the New World Order as I envision it. Then he makes sure everyone has a script and knows their part. He tells them how to speak and when to speak it. How to dress and (patting my head) how to wear their hair. He gets everything and everyone in place and hollers, "Action!" Reagan shouted through his hand as though it were a megaphone and rambled on, "All the world's a stage. I'm the Wizard. But he is directing the show so you better pay attention and learn your part well from him."

Cheney interrupted, "George and I will be working closely on a few projects together, and when you see him, you'll see me. When you're given orders from him, you're given orders from me.

"She knows the chain of command, Dick," Reagan injected, referring to his perception of who was in charge, and in what order. President, Vice President, Habib, Cheney, Byrd, etc. may have been the chain of command in Reagan's mind, but Cheney's definition was necessary to my understanding. From my perspective, the chain of command was clearly Bush, Cheney, Habib, Reagan, Aquino and lastly, on a par with my handler Houston, Byrd, all of which was subject to change at any given moment. Cheney just rolled his eyes at Reagan's comment and never slowed down as he continued. "Right now a stage is being set and you will be directed by the Vice President on just how he wants you to do your part in setting the stage for Mexico's role in the New World Order."

. . .

Bush slipped back into the meeting, without Kelly. Cheney continued, "Taking orders from me and your new director—the Vice President. Lesson number one. You know what Miami Vice is. Undercover drug agents taking control of the drug industry. A Vice President is just that—an undercover drug agent taking control of the drug industry—for the President."

Bush spoke up. "Mexico is a problem. They've got lots of drugs, but not the brains nor the means to sell it outside their own country. So how can we take control of their (growing) drug industry when we can't even get our hands on it? It's your duty as an American citizen to open the routes and initiate freedom from poverty throughout their nation by offering them cash as a means of enticing their drug industry right into our grasp by bringing it right up to our doorsteps."

"Operation Greenbacks for Wetbacks," Cheney said, laughing. Bush laughed with him.

Bush regained his composure to conclude," You're assignment begins in Miami with NCL (Norwegian Caribbean Lines) and ends with your return from Mexico with word of success."

. . .

I left the White House with a message for the Vice President of Mexico, Carlos Salinas de Gortari, from the Vice President of the U.S., and with one very sick child.

. . .

It was my understanding then that the North American Free Trade Agreement was considered a significant step in implementing the New World Order through mind manipulation of the masses. According to Byrd, propaganda disguising the true purpose of NAFTA included the concept of "free trade" which the U.S. and Mexican governments had long since shared. "Free trade" of child and adult mind-controlled slaves, cocaine, heroin, and business has been not-so-secretly proliferating for years. My own father joined the "run for the border" via U.S. State Department and Mexican subsidized business incentives and opened yet another branch of his U.S. Department of Defense-given-business in Mexico. This was part of the "free trade" agreement that I know personally to have been operating smoothly since 1984. In an effort to maintain the illusion that the agreement would not create a negative economic imbalance between Mexico and the U.S., tourist areas of Mexico were deliberately built up, enhanced and Americanized with U.S. dollars. These funds were provided through CIA covert Black Budget operations of drug and slave trading, as well as directly through the Senate Appropriations Committee of which Senator Robert C. Byrd is chairman as of this writing.

. . .

Senator Byrd claimed "the money game is simply a game of control," and lives by his adopted Golden Rule of "he who holds the gold makes the rules." He told me in so many words that "by appropriating funds to all (viable) projects ushering in the free trade agreement, and allocating lesser amounts to U.S. social systems such as our 'criminal' justice system, I control our country and our place in world markets. All the world is a stage, and I own the theater! You can bank on it!"

Senator Byrd's twisted reality echoed in my mind when America was bought (stolen) and sold by Presidents Bush and Clinton in the recent passage of NAFTA.

. . .

Although President de la Madrid was considered by Bush to be the stepping stone to the ultimate reign of Salinas/Bush's (already established diplomatic relations, he was regarded with all due respect in a manner conductive to "no margins for error." His full cooperation was tantamount to establishing Bush's and Salinas' goals via free flowing drug markets and Mexico's cooperation in subversively funding and supplying Reagan's Nicaraguan Contras. De la Madrid worked in close association with Salinas so that a smooth transition of power would maintain U.S.-Mexican relations and efforts already in place. (Is it any wonder that Jeb Bush and George W. Bush were later placed as Governors of Texas and Florida, U.S.-Mexican "border states" to Mexico and the Caribbean, to utilize and maintain these drug U.S.-Mexican drug trade contacts organized by their father Bush Senior with Salinas from the 1980s?)

. . .

I set the suitcase in front of Salinas and began relaying the message I had been programmed to deliver.

"I have a message from the Vice President of the United States of America to our neighbors in Mexico. America is willing to share its wealth through a trade agreement with Mexico. We'll trade our cash for control over Mexico's cocaine and heroin production. By controlling your drug industry, we can open the border between our countries to allow a free flow of cocaine and heroin into the U.S., bought and paid for in American dollars to build Mexico. Eventually this could dissolve the border between our countries altogether as Mexico's economy grows to match ours. If we begin today, this dream could be realized by the turn of the century—sharing the same continent, sharing the same wealth. Why? The drug industry already dictates what the Mexican government can or cannot do. By giving the U.S. control of your drug industry, Mexico regains control over her government. Re-established power backed by U.S. dollars will bring Mexico on an economic par with America. We can begin by spreading the word through the (drug) cartels that the U.S. is covertly willing to open the borders to free drug trade by making agents available to show you the passage and routes through which the drugs are to be delivered. Only U.S. agents can bring Mexican heroin and (South American) cocaine across the border, and likewise they will bring the cash in. Explain to those select few who control the drug empires that the cruise line (NCL) agreement is going into mass expansion, tearing down the border between our countries enough to allow for as many drugs to come in as Mexico can deal out. When do we begin? Immediately. The cash is at hand. (I gestured toward the suitcase which Salinas unzipped to find full of cash.) Deliver whatever amount of brown heroin you have at hand as a means of confirmation of the agreement. Keep the change as a token of the change and good fortune that has befallen Mexico from its neighboring nation."

As I finished Bush's message, Salinas immediately took a note pad from the desk and scrawled a quick note. He passed it to a guard who was stationed at the door. He stood up, smiled, and leaned over his desk as he extended his hand in a warm handshake. I was escorted out. Houston found me on the front steps of the installation and together we were escorted through the barbed wire fences and back onto the streets of Cancun.

. . .

Throughout my tenure as a Presidential Model mind-controlled slave, I was provided specific books according to Bush's program. These books, delivered through pre-established channels such as Ken Riley, Alex Houston, and even Ronald Reagan, came complete with specific commands on how they were to be interpreted and used. Some books were used to instruct me on operations; some were an attempt to scramble my memory with fantasy; others were used to load my mind with pertinent data such as bank account passport numbers, and so on.

. . .

Additionally, California's 24-year incumbent Senator Alan Cranston of the Select Committee on Intelligence has perpetuated this trauma base for decades, as have others.

. . .

By the time I had finished reading the last page of his About Faces book, I was so traumatized I instantly "became what I read" when I read the last verse aloud as ordered:

I am a True Patriot living an American Dream,
I will become my role when you pull my string,
I will become my part, so I can "be all I can be'
'Cause just like the Vice President, I am what I read.

. . .

Occasionally our travels would take us to Michigan, where Houston made certain we stayed with my family. Trips to my father's house were devastating but informative. My mother had developed deep, psychological scars above and beyond her own MPD condition and became an insomniac. My father by this time was routinely traveling to London, Germany, and Mexico, and taking the family to Florida's Disney World and Washington, D.C. My older brother, Bill, still worked for and with my father, traveled with him annually to "hunt" in Cheney's Greybull, Wyoming lodge, and maintained his wife and three children under trauma-base mind control according to front some of my father's and Uncle Bob Tanis' lucrative porn business. My sister, Kelli Jo, became a belly dancing contortionist excelling in "gymnastics" since she became "as flexible as Gumby" according to her prostitute programming. She worked her way through school in children's day-care centers, admittedly spotting, for my father, abused children for potential "chosen ones" candidates. In 1990, she graduated to open a licensed day-care, "Little Learners" in Grand Haven, Michigan for my father. My brother, Tom (Beaver), is a Compu-Kids (CIA Project) programmed computer genius.

. . .

Nor could I have appeared "normal" to outsiders had they cared to see beyond my superficial programmed cover personality. I did have occasion to mix with "outsiders" at the local library where I took Kelly for her books on days when we were not traveling. By age 6, she tested at the 7th grade reading level.

. . .

My "religious fanatic" cover personality was cultivated at the Brentwood, Tennessee Lord's Chapel "nondenominational" (Pentecostal) church, through the CIA Operative preacher "Reverend" Billy Roy Moore (who has since fled to Arkansas due to a local murder scandal).

Moore transported cocaine from the Caribbean for the CIA, at least during the Reagan Administration, under the guise of so-called "missions," i.e., Christian ministries. It most likely was not the intent of the Christians dedicated to their Caribbean ministries to be used by the CIA and Moore to inadvertently mule drugs into our country. Even CIA agents operating under "need to know" partial information were denied the full scope of what they were actually participating in. Many seemingly willing participants were manipulated, provided "justification," and deliberately misled to believe they were serving their country, rather than destroying it from the inside out.

. . .

Jimmy Walker, the same photographer who had taken pornographic "wedding night" pictures for Larry Flynt, recently had other photographs of me published in Hustler. When Dante found out, he was furious. Larry Flint and Dante both worked for the CIA, had Vatican and Mafia connections, and deliberately appealed to Reagan's perversions using Project Monarch Mind-Controlled slaves. What Flynt could not publish, Dante ran through the underground.

. . .

Michael Dante's pornographic filming abilities served several purposes. Aside from producing porn according to Reagan's own (well known) perversions and instructions, Dante was present during may key international government "gatherings." Oftentimes when I and others were prostituted to various government (New World Order) leaders, Dante had hidden cameras filming perverse sexual acts apparently for future blackmail leverage. . .Dante turned the videos over to Reagan, and covertly kept copies to protect himself. Dante converted a small room of his Beverly Hills mansion into a security vault, where he kept his personal copies of the international blackmail porn takes there

Among these internationally scandalous tapes are numerous videos covertly produced at the supposedly secure political sex playground in northern California, Bohemian Grove.
According to Houston, Dante's high tech undetectable cameras used fiber optics, and fish-eye lens were in each of the elite club's numerous sexual perversion theme rooms. My knowledge of these cameras was due to the strategically compromising positions of the political perpetrators I was prostituted to in the various kinky theme rooms.

I was programmed and equipped to function in all rooms of Bohemian Grove in order to compromise specific government targets according to their personal perversions. "Anything, anytime, anywhere with anyone" with my mode of operation at the Grove. I do not purport to understand the full function of this political cesspool playground as my perception was limited to my own realm of experience. My perception is that Bohemian Grove serves those ushering in the New World Order through mind control, and consists primarily of the highest Mafia and U.S. Government officials. I do not use the term "highest" loosely, as copious quantities of drugs were consumed there.

. . .

The only business conducted there pertained to implementing the New World Order, through the proliferation of mind-control atrocities. The only room where business discussions were permitted was the small, dark lounge affectionately and appropriately referred to as the Underground.

Sex slaves were not routinely permitted in the Underground for security reasons, leaving the lounge's small stage as the only source of "entertainment." This entertainment ranged from would-be talents such as Lee Atwater, Bill Clinton, and George Bush to CIA Operative entertainers such as Boxcar Willie and Lee Greenwood. On one occasion I was instructed to meet with former President Gerald Ford in the Underground where Lee Atwater was picking and singing. As I walked through the smoke-filled room to Ford's table, Atwater interrupted his song to cryptically acknowledge my unwelcome presence by singing choruses of "Over the Rainbow" and Byrd's song for me "Country Roads" while emphasizing the lines of "Almost heaven, West Virginia."

My purpose at the Grove was sexual in nature, and therefore my perceptions were limited to a sex slave's viewpoint. As an effective means of control to ensure undetected proliferation of their perverse indulgences, slaves such as myself were subjected to ritualistic trauma. I knew each breach I took could be my last, as the threat of death lurked in every shadow. Slaves of advancing age or with failing programming were sacrificially murdered "at random" in the wooded grounds of Bohemian Grove, and I felt it was "simply a matter of time until it would be me." Rituals were held at a giant, concrete owl monument on the banks of, ironically enough, the Russian (rushin') River. These occultish sex rituals stemmed from the scientific belief that mind-controlled slaves required severe trauma to ensure compartmentalization of the memory, and not from any spiritual motivation.

My own threat of death was instilled when I witnessed the sacrificial death of a young, dark-haired victim at which time I was instructed to perform sexually "as though my life depended on it."

. . .

From the owl's roost to the necrophilia room, no memory of sexual abuse is as horrifying as the conversations overheard in the Underground pertaining to implementing the New World Order. I learned the perpetrators believed that controlling the masses through propaganda mind manipulation did not guarantee there would be a world left to dominate due to environmental and overpopulation problems. The solution being debated was not pollution/population control, but mass genocide of "selected undesirables."

. . .

Anyone attending the Bohemian Grove on a regular basis was referred to by those in the know as a "Grover." One such Grover was Ronald Reagan's then-Secretary of Education, Bill Bennett. Bill Bennett, who later became "Drug Czar" during the Bush Administration, wrote the so-called Book of Virtues and was/is? Vying for the office of President. Bennett is apparently very close to his brother and fellow Grover, Bob Bennett. Although Bob Bennett holds the position of Legal Counsel to President Clinton, it is apparent that the brothers recognize no party lines.

It was clear to me that there were no partisan differences amongst those ushering in the New World Order, any more than there was loyalty to our Constitution. The close relationship I witnessed between the Bennett brothers, like the marriage between Clinton's and Bush's 1992 campaign managers James Carville and Mary Matlin, should raise questions as to their agenda.

When Bill and Bob Bennett together sexually assaulted my daughter, Kelly, and me at the Bohemian Grove in 1986, I had already known Bill Bennett as a mind-control programmer for some time.

. . .

Bennett manipulated my perceptions until, at last, he informed me. "You and I will be working closely together on a global education project." Sweeping his hand around the crowded room, he continued, "This atmosphere is not conducive to the kind of work we need to be doing. . . .Let's complete tonight's business with pleasure. . .

. . .

In one of many White House bedrooms available for such purposes, Bennett led me into bed. "I told you we were going to beat it out of this dimension, and that's exactly what I intend to do. A little Byrd told me you like a whip. Since I am not the Senate kind, I'll just represent the majority by giving you what you need most."

Bennett apparently found perverse pleasure in whipping me. With my wrists bruised and my body stinging with pain, Bennett lit up a cigarette. . .

. . .

Reagan was dressed in a dark, navy blue suit and red silk tie. His red rosebud boutonniere instantly triggered me into Jesuit "Order of the Rose" sex slave mode. "Well, hello, Kitten," Reagan said, blowing his cognac breath in my face as he bent over to kiss my hand.

"Uncle Ronnie... " I said, sexually responding as conditioned.

Reagan turned to the man beside him and said, "Brian, this is one more of those benefits of the New World Order I was telling you about. Kitten, this is Brian Mulroney, Prime Minister of Canada."

The connotations of my childhood experience with the former Prime "Minister" of Canada, Pierre Trudeau, suggested that Mulroney was Jesuit—as did the mode I was operating in. He, too, was wearing a red rose boutonniere signifying his involvement and commitment to the Order of the Rose.

. . .

Expertly using Order of the Rose signals and triggers, Mulroney said, "Just give me the key to her heart, and she's mine."

"You are wise to the ways of the world," Reagan commented.

"I have to be on top of things. It's a New World Order," Mulroney said matter-of-factly.

As a guard led me away, I heard Reagan tell Mulroney, "You will be on top of the world soon."

I was searched by uniformed Canadian bodyguards and pointed in the direction of one of the White House's many bedroom suites. When I opened the door, I saw three blonde sex slaves undressing and preparing the bed—one of whom was my close friend and Senator Arlen Spector's slave.

. . .

"Hell girls! It is a small world!" Mulroney entered and strode across the room, tossing his coat on a chair and loosening his tie.

. . .

In retrospect I know it was no coincidence that my friend and I were brought together to satisfy Brian Mulroney's perversion for mind-controlled slaves. Identically mirror programmed, we operated in unison. The delicate red rose tattoo on my friend's left wrist signified her enslavement to the (New World) Order of the Rose to which Mulroney belonged.

. . .

My programmed role toward implementing Education 2000 according to the plans of those ushering in the New World Order brought me back in contact with former Governor of Tennessee, Lamar Alexander and eventually Canadian Prime Minister Brian Mulroney.

I had met Lamar Alexander in 1978, at a satanic ritual I was subjected to in an affluent neighborhood of Nashville, Tennessee. Lamar Alexander presided over this sex-oriented occult ritual with full understanding of my Project Monarch Mind-Control victimization and the impact of his actions were having on my mind. It was my experience then, and intermittently through the years, that Lamar Alexander's sexual perversion was to bring his victim to the point of death through oral suffocation.

. . .

Lamar Alexander, who followed Bennett as Bush's Secretary of Education, worked in close association with Bill Bennett to manipulate the minds of the masses to accept Education 2000 as the ONLY means of educational reform. When Ned McWherter was moved into the office of Governor to rubber stamp federal projects, Lamar Alexander maintained influence over state politics. At the same time, he maintained influence over national politics through his role as chairman of the National Governor's Association in 1986.

As the 1984 Governor's Convention drew near, I met with Lamar Alexander at the Stockyard nightclub where he was drinking with his long time associate and partner-in-crime, Nashville's Mayor Richard Fulton. In the basement bar of this old, converted stockyard was a modified antique "Shoe Shine" booth, where the term took on a new meaning. A key to a private shoeshine booth could be obtained by those in the know through Stockyard owner, Buddy Killen. This closet-sized booth was lined with mirrors and had a small bench where Lamar Alexander sat after our business was concluded. I knelt at his feet as ordered to perform oral sex. Programmed sex slaves such as myself were trained to go long periods of time without drawing a breath, and users such as Alexander stretched this time to the maximum.

On this occasion, Alexander apparently exceeded the maximum. I do not recall completion of my programmed task. It was afterhours when my mind-control handler, Alex Houston, dragged my limp body from the booth, roused me, and ordered me out of the building. Buddy Killen opened a back door that once was a cattle run, and Houston half-dragged me out the back exit screen.

. . .

I recognized Governor Blanchard, and was well aware of Michigan's ranking first in the nation in education. "Speaking of which," he continued, "I believe I see your mother more often than you do these days since she is working in the schools. That little sister of yours (Kimmy) is a prime example of what proper instruction can produce. Your little sister is coming to Mackinac to further her skills. Your whole family is a prime example of how good Education 2000 works."

. . .

Task complete, I went to Byrd's nearby room as instructed. He was in the bathroom preparing himself for bed. "Louise had her feathers rustled over Barbara's collision with destiny and I had to smooth them down a bit." Drying his dough gray hands on a towel, he turned to me and said, "Looks like you've had your wings spread a bit tonight."

"I wore a path up and down the stairs," I stated.

Much to my relief he said, "I'm not going to fiddle with you further. I just wanted to give you something to remember me by—Bye." He compartmentalized my memory with his stun gun.

Soon thereafter, Kelly and I were transported to Mackinac Island, Michigan to meet with Canadian Prime Minister Brian Mulroney at then-Governor James Blanchard's mansion.

. . .

The guests in the mansion were reminiscent of the recent Tennessee Governor's convention: Michigan Governor Blanchard, Ohio Governor Dick Celeste, and Pennsylvania Governor Dick Thornburgh. Guy VanderJagt and Jerry Ford were also present. Mulroney appeared to be the guest of "honor."

. . .

"Tell Mr. Bennett. . .implementation is high. I'm already sold on Global 2000 and have additional points I would like for them to consider. Headsets at every computer station for openers. Double the impact with dual learning. We're being thrust forward a warp speed, and the generations of the future may need an added booster to bring them up to speed. A united global effort using your education package as a basis is designed to bring the future into a clear and present reality."

Business complete, Mulroney triggered my sex programming and led me upstairs to bedrooms where Kelly was robotically waiting, entranced. . .

. . .

U.S. and Mexican relations were flourishing in the success of NAFTA's groundwork, while political differences pertaining to Nicaragua remained a minor point of contention. Since the Catholic Vatican's Intelligence arm of Jesuits were working closely with U.S. Intelligence to user in the New World Order, they used their established influence in Mexico and Nicaragua to provide a common ground for "diplomatic relations." My dual mind-control victimization by the CIA and the Jesuits since childhood, and my previous "diplomatic relations" in Mexico thrust me into the role of messenger and prostitute to Nicaragua's Daniel Ortega.

. . .

I boarded NCL as usual to reach my appointed destination. Since Nicaragua was not a port of call for NCL, I flew from the Yukatan of Mexico to a remote military airstrip in Managua. It was in this small mountain top clearing that I met with Commandant Daniel Ortega, as had been arranged through the Vatican.

I was dressed seasonably in shorts, with my long blond hair tucked back in a French braid. Ortega's attire, too, was reflective of the casual air to the meeting. His tan, military uniform had worn thin, and was free of any protocol insignias. The dark, rose-colored sunglasses he peered through apparently had not changed his somber view of the "noble cause" he claimed to represent. I man of few words, he greeted me with an order, "Come with me." I rode with him in silence as he drove a jeep the short distance across the airstrip to a small, neat, two story, white, frame house.

As we came to a stop in front of the house, Ortega said in a sad, slow voice. "I have needs like any man. But I feel like a whore myself for accepting your President's offer."

His bedroom was clean and functional, with numerous assault weapons scattered around. I did not see any modern conveniences or personal effects, but Ortega seemed to be at home in his surroundings.

Ortega's demeanor was that of a man who had abstained from sex longer than most in his political position. As he slowly unbuttoned his shirt, I noticed a Catholic medallion with the secret Jesuit ascension/dessension symbol on it, a common accessory among Jesuit spooks.

. . .

While he chain smoked cigarettes, I sat in front of him on the floor, and relayed Reagan's message to him as programmed.

. . .

Ortega thoughtfully finished smoking a cigarette, and lit up another as he confidently replied, "Tell your President that I have seen his freedom, and listened to his words projected through yet another example of it. He paints a beautiful picture suspended within his framework. A picture can appear serene to its beholder while it is being gazed upon. I cannot worship a graven image, and the picture he paints is just that. We have fought too hard and too long, spilling sweat and blood across this land in our determined effort to maintain human values instilled in us by our forefathers, who gained their profound wisdom from the original Catholic missionaries. These values are the same as those portrayed in President Reagan's painted picture—only ours are real. His have only surface value, like any other painting. If I were to concede, I would only be framed within the picture he paints, hung on his wall like a trophy. I will not mislead my people, in spite of his offers of wealth and position. I am true to my convictions, and when he is true to his, then we will meet on common ground and have something of substance to discuss. For now, words are only a waste of time."

Ortega put out his cigarette, and pulled back the covers on his bed. "I'll take you somewhere pleasant." He took out a well-used opium pipe/bong off his dresser and handed me a nozzle. I had been trained to accept any drug given to me with the only exception being the strictly forbidden marijuana. I hesitated until Ortega assured me it was opium. As the drug took effect he said, "This could be the way to world peace." Sex with Ortega was at very least free of pain and perversion. Unlike most I was forced to have "diplomatic relations" with for the Reagan Administration, he fell asleep when he was through due to the difference between opium and cocaine.

The honk of a jeep's horn outside awoke him. As I prepared to leave, he said "Wait." He took a small, ¼ inch or so ball of black opium from his personal stash, wrapped it in the cellophane from his cigarette package wrapper, and said, "Give this to your President and tell him that you and I have found more peace with this substance than he'll ever impart on the surface of his painted globe." As he closed the door quietly behind me he said, "Come back and see me when you have more to offer."

I was immediately returned by plane to Washington, D. C. where my "mission" had originated. This time I was taken directly to Bush's office, where I delivered Ortega's message verbatim. Eliminating most of the dialogue, Bush instructed me to deliver a partial message to Reagan. Unable to perceive message content and people beyond my "Need to Know" mind-controlled limited view, I had no concept that Ortega had proven himself to be as much a hypocrite as he purported Reagan to be by using me as a prostitute and messenger of bad news knowing full well that I had no free will with which to make the message more palatable. Bush's revision of Ortega's message added fuel to a proverbial fire that I didn't even know was burning when I delivered the message to Reagan.

Bush was with Reagan and me in Reagan's secondary office (to the Oval office) of the White House as I relayed the message as instructed, "Daniel Ortega is a peace loving man, who seeks the same resolutions that we do. But he told me to tell you—(I dug in my purse for the opium) that he and I found more peace in this substance—(I handed the opium to Reagan)—than you'll ever impart on the surface of your painted globe."

Bush smiled as Reagan's face instantly turned beet red with rage. Bush then reacted and spun out of his chair, took the opium for himself, and told Reagan, "Settle down. . ."

. . .

Obviously I wouldn't be subjected to sex with Reagan that day. I was quickly excused and flown back to Mexico, where I resumed my NCL cruise. With my memory of the event compartmentalized through high voltage, I believed at the time I had never been gone at all.

. . .

In the fall of 1985, the same part of me that met with Ortega was walking with (Reagan appointed) CIA Director William "Bill" Casey through the arboured rose garden of his Long Island estate. Casey began by manipulating my Jesuit/Vatican program base personality with the expertise indicative of the current union between Catholic and CIA operations. Casey, whom Reagan referred to as a "man of Vision," was forming my Jesuit mind-control programmed "understanding." "I have a World Vision, one of peace. By removing the more violent factions of societies world wide and replacing them with faithful leaders of one world government, and the one world church, global unification is eminent. It is a beautiful vision, and it came to me in my dreams. God has moved me to move men. I've moved them here and I've moved them there—now it's time to REmove them. My World Vision encompasses the globe and puts to rest any and all tensions, strife, overpopulation, and starvation. My vision is a World Vision, and the churches see it my way as evidenced by their support of the cause."

World Vision was/is a Jesuit controlled organization that led churches to give them money under the guise of spreading world peace. What they were not saying was what the money was actually funding—a world peace plan under mind control.

Perceptual distortions of the virtues that good people hold most dear is one reason for the proliferation of criminal activity within such organizations as World Vision. There are those within affected factions of such organizations, the Catholic Church, and even the U.S. Government that operate under distorted perceptions referred to by the CIA as a "Need to Know" basis—and they "Need to Know" that their minds, religion, and/or perceptions are being deliberately manipulated.

. . .

Referring to my mind-controlled involvement in Haitian operations via NCL, Casey further defined 'the cause.' "Your heartfelt mission in Haiti has helped in my World Vision quest for her people to abandon hedonistic voodoo and turn their eyes to God and Godly ways. By their own design ,they have created an atmosphere of evil whereby a plague will be visited on their land. The Lord has so moved me to move men who share our goals of peace. It is for this reason that your mission in Haiti must be brought to a close. Baby Doc, in his tireless devotion to saving the demonically possessed cannot bear the burden of watching his people die the wretched death unleashed upon those doomed to hell. We are left with no alternative but to heed the word of God and spare him from annihilation. For this reason, we will send in the missionaries (Jesuit Mercenaries) to inoculate the population with a vaccine that will spare only the good of heart by virtue of its design. All attempts to maintain Haiti within the loop of financial gain will cease. Tourism must be stopped for the sake of the innocents visiting a plagued land. Despite our differences, Baby Doc had complied with the Vatican's orders to the best of his abilities in his demon-infested land, and must resign his post. We owe it to him to transport him to safety. It is our duty as Americans and followers of God to obey the commands of our Lord and Master and enforce World Vision. It is your duty as an American and follower of God to instill the understanding that God has spoken, and a plague is imminent. Baby Doc is being prepared for the transition and awaits word of direction. You will provide him with that word."

With my perceptions distorted and Catholic Jesuit programmed "understanding" instilled, I was prepared to "religiously accept" any an all I was told. I believed that the revolution in Haiti was a holy war, never capable of realizing it was a test run battle for the minds in this 4th world country.

The devotion I felt toward the Haitian people was more than a religious understanding of these alternatively Catholic-Santeria voodoo worshipers. I was actually subconsciously recognizing other tortured mind-controlled slaves in this human created hell called Haiti. Consciously, I now know it was due in part to the visible stun gun/prod marks, plastic ever-present smiles that never quite reach their dead appearing eyes. The children cling to their wide-eyed mothers, as they performed their tasks in robotic servitude. I had recognized these characteristics in other slaves throughout the years, but never had I seen a whole country entranced. My compassion for the Haiti people penetrated into the realm of the spiritual, into a part of me that mind control and manipulation of religion could never touch.

Casey and I had been walking through the garden, guarded by more armed men than the President. It wasn't that I was a threat, I couldn't even think to save myself. It was that Casey and his World Vision were a threat to humanity that so many guards were needed. The men appeared to be U.S. Secret Service officers according to their attire, weapons, and earphone headsets.

. . .

Had I been capable of "reflecting," I would have questioned the validity of Casey's dramatic position of "religious overtones" on Haitian policy. Like Reagan's, Casey's sincerity did not ring true considering the fruits of his labor. But then, I could not consider any more than I could reflect, and I sat in a state of what felt like suspended animation awaiting my instructions.

. . .

Casey opened the box in front of me. Inside, laying on a bed of cotton, was an elaborate dagger with a handle of the same rose crystal from which the crucifix Byrd had presented to me on "our wedding night" was made. My first personal meeting with Casey promised to be tortuous as I recognized Byrd's participation in the grisly ordeal.

I listened, deeply tranced, as Casey said, "Is it a knife or a crucifix?" I can't tell. Both symbolize martyrdom as far as I'm concerned. Note the rose pattern cut into the crystal. Now, I wonder who would have send me this to give to you."

Even under mind control I knew, as I was supposed to, that Byrd had provided him with the knife. My worst fears were confirmed when Casey began using Byrd's hypnotic induction, "In like a knife, sharp and clean, I'll carve out what I want." Casey sliced through the front of my bra, exposing the area between my breasts where Byrd routinely cut me with his pocketknife. He pierced into my breastbone deeply so that I believed I would split, and indeed did split off a personality fragment compartmentalizing this event. Using standard Jesuit-based infinity program, Casey instructed me and programmed me with messages that I would deliver as though my life depended on it.

. . .

(As a preparation for the introduced plague), Haiti had recently been dropped from the NCL itinerary as a Port of Call, but the Dominican Republic side of the island remained open to tourism. When Houston and I debarked the NCL ship in Puerta Plata, we walked past a World Vision cargo ship that was being unloaded at the dock.

. . .

In an area reserved for covert activities, out of view of tourists, I met with General Cedras in his Citadel office. . . .I had seen him at a monastery in Santo Domingo as ordered before, when Haiti was still being used by the CIA for Operation Watchtower to transport cocaine and Contra weapons from Cuba.

Alone with Cedras and properly signaled, I began photographically reciting Casey's message, "I have word of warning from the Vatican by way of the honorable and faithful William Casey. He sends word of impending doom that is to befall your neighbors on the darkside of Haiti. Voodoo manifests itself in mysterious ways while the way of the Lord is clear. Evil must be stopped at all costs. The cost shall be in terms of human casualty, as a plague is being visited upon the land. Woo onto them who have stood in the path of World Peace. By God's design the New World Order shall come into being with or without the Haitians. All American operations in Haiti are now destined for your ports. Your people (the CIA-UN operated Dominicans) will flourish in peace and prosperity while the dark side (Haitians) drown in blood of this holy war that they have brought upon themselves. Close your borders swiftly and maintain guardians at the gate lest the Haitians infest your land with their evil plague. Inoculation of the masses shall be masked in the body and the blood shall carry their doom. As more and more Haitians turn to God in their final hour, the communion they partake will be Satan's own. With their God as the scapegoat, your Island in the Son (sun) will be freed of the vile and wicked. I have seen a vision, a World Vision, and it is through communion with the ancients that we have been granted the keys to the Kingdom to unlock the gates of hell. The holy water sent herein has the blessings of the Vatican and must be sprinkled like rain upon the Haitians. Our God reigns, and he rains rivers of blood upon the Haitian masses, and he reigns supreme upon your mission. Your mission is clear. You serve communion and let God sort them out. . ."

. . .

Interpretation of the final message is left to the minds of the masses who can still discern truth. My conclusions are "clear," based on conversations overheard and my experience as a White House sex slave


I was relieved to depart Cedras' presence without being subjected to his usual perverse sexual brutality.

. . .

. . .my programmed trance was maintained until I delivered Casey's message to Baby Doc Duvalier on the "dark side" of the "Island in the Son."

. . .

I was driven by white Mercedes to the Haitian Presidential Palace. Looking even more conspicuously out of place in contrast to stark poverty than his fleet of Mercedes, Baby Doc's Palace was decadent.

. . .

I had met with Baby Doc throughout the early '80s in the capacity of a Project Monarch prostitute. All Haitian-based U.S. covert operations were run by a bed-ridden old man referred to as "Ol' Charlie," who resided at the El Presidente Hotel until his death in the mid '80s. During my tenure as a mind-controlled messenger and prostitute in Haiti, I had been forced to attend a voodoo ceremony for my (and others) traumatization purposes. I was ordered to perform oral sex on Baby Doc as his dark-windowed Mercedes slowly proceeded through the crowds of Haitians on their way to the ritual. With my Haitian missions previously established with Ol' Charlie for business and Baby doc for prostitution, my meeting Baby Doc for business was unprecedented.

"What brings you here?" Baby Doc spit the words at me in English. I had been led into his library by three armed guards. "I have no need of a Catholic whore."

Baby Doc's applicable knowledge of the English language was limited by his intellect whereby an aide filled the need for an interpreter as I delivered Casey's message.

"I come in the name of peace. I have a message to you from William Casey, sanctioned by the Vatican. The Pope is in agreement with U.S. policy in Haiti. He has seen a vision, a sign from God. The vision is World Vision, whose people are reaching out to yours with charity in abundance. The goods and services provided require only that the people of Haiti anoint the sick, feed the hungry, and clothe the poor through his servants of World Vision. Their mission will separate the good seed from bad and restore peace in your region. The peace that shall be visited upon your land amongst your people is imminent, but not before the rivers run red with blood of the wicked. The vision is plague, and your people will fall in the streets pleading for mercy, and you will not be here to hear it. The time has come for you to leave. It is God's will that you escape the plague with blessings from the Vatican, never to return to your homeland. Prepare your exodus today for tomorrow holds a promise of doom. Using your prophetic wisdom, warn the masses of impending doom and arm with World Vision. . . ."

. . .

With Casey's message delivered, Baby Doc's Tontons returned me to the same airplane I had left a short time before. I few in silence, unable to think to comprehend the magnitude of what had just transpired. Events to a mind-controlled slave are all perceived as first and last times. Therefore, Casey's instructions that I would "depart Haiti, never to return again" seemed business as usual to me.


. . .

ON December 4, 1986, I turned 29 years old. Usually mind-controlled slaves were discarded, "thrown from the Freedom train," at 30; but I argued with Houston when he told me my government abusers only had one year left to "use me up." I had had no conscious awareness of the passing of time, and believed I was still 24. Regardless of what I believed, my abusers did their best to "use me up" physically and psychologically before even a month had passed.

. . .

George Bush was highly active in both the Lampe, Missouri and Shasta, California retreat compounds. Just like Lampe, Shasta's cover was country music. According to everyone I knew, singer and songwriter Merle Haggard supposedly ran the show at Lake Shasta, diverting any and all attention from the nearby Mount Shasta compound. Shasta was the largest, covert mind-control slave camp of which I am aware. Hidden in the wooded hills, military fencing corrals an enormous fleet of unmarked, black helicopters and more mind-controlled, military robots than I saw in all of Haiti. This covert military operation served its own agenda, not America's. I was told and overheard that it was a base for the future Multi-Jurisdictional Police Force; for enforcing order and law in the New World Order.

. . .

As soon as we arrived at Bush and Cheney's inner sanctum, I noticed George (W.) Bush, Jr. was with them. It was my experience that Jr. stood by his father and covered his backside whenever Bush would become incapacitated from drugs or required criminal backup. It appeared that Jr. was there to serve both purposes while his father and Cheney enjoyed their work-vacation.

Hyper from drugs, Cheney and Bush were eager to hunt their human prey in "A Most Dangerous Game". They greeted me with the rules of the game, ordered me to strip naked despite the cold December winds, and told me in Oz cryptic to "beware of the lions, tigers and bears." Kelly's life became the stakes, as usual, which resurrected my natural and exaggerated programmed maternal instincts. Tears silently slid down my cheeks as Bush told me, "If we catch you, Kelly's mine. . . ."

. . .

It was late evening when Bush and Cheney finished programming me with numerous messages pertaining to the immediate opening of the Juarez, Mexican border to free (drug and slave) trade. They then took me downstairs to the living quarters of the western cedar and redwood structure where Kelly soon joined us. George (W.) Bush, Jr., deposited my obviously traumatized and withdrawn child at the door. Referring to the Most Dangerous Game she told me in a quiet, defeated and sad voice, "I was caught the same as you."

. . .

The décor of the residence area reflected Cheney's primitive, rustic, western preference. Like his "ultra secret" Pentagon Bunkhouse, use of leather was in abundance. The main room was small, but appeared larger due to an infinity mirror on one wall. The main room was small, but appeared larger due to being decorated in mirror fashion with one side looking at the other. Centered between two facing black leather sofas was a coffee table littered with drugs and paraphernalia. Bush and Cheney were sitting in matching black leather recliners angled toward the large stone fireplace where a fire was blazing, illuminating and heating the room.

Heroin, Bush's drug of choice, was in abundance and Cheney joined him in using it. The smorgasbord of drugs laid out supposedly included opium, cocaine, and Wonderland Wafers (MDMHA-XTC aka ecstasy), which indicated to me that they intended to celebrate their vacation with abandon. I had seen Cheney stumbling drunk before, but this was the only time I saw him use heroin and give it to me. Kelly, too, was subjected to the drugs.

Bush attempted to sell Cheney on the idea of pedophilia through graphic descriptions of having sex with Kelly. Both were already sexually aroused from drugs and anticipation. Cheney demonstrated to Bush why he did not have sex with kids by exposing himself to Kelly and saying, "Come here." Upon seeing Cheney's unusually large penis, Kelly reeled back in horror and cried, "No!" which made them both laugh. Bush asked Cheney for his liquid cocaine atomizer as he got up to take Kelly to the bedroom. When Cheney remarked how benevolent it was of Bush to numb her with it before sex, Bush replied "The hell it is. It's for me." He described his excited state in typical vulgar terms and explained that he wanted to spray cocaine on his penis to last longer.

Cheney said, "I thought it was for the kid."

Bush explained, "Half the fun is having them squirm." He took Kelly's hand and led her off to the bedroom.

Cheney told me that since I was "responsible" for Bush's assault on my daughter by being caught in A Most Dangerous Game, I would "burn" (in hell). He burned my inner thigh with the fireplace poker, and threatened to throw Kelly in the fire. He hypnotically enhanced his description of her burning to traumatize me deeply. As he sexually brutalized me, I heard Kelly's whimpers coming from the bedroom. As her cries grew louder, Cheney turned on classical music to drown out her cries for help.

. . .

. . .Dante drove me to a Bel Aire mansion high on a hill where another party was underway. As I joined those who had gathered on the manicured lawn, I recognized many of the same Mafia people who had been at the Malibu retreat aka "Hotel California." This was a welcome party for President Reagan who had just arrived. He was walking across the yard toward me with his friend, Jack Valenti, who was the president of the powerful Motion Picture Association of America. Reagan looked his role amongst his mobster friends, his beige coat with fur collar draped over his shoulders revealing a dark gray, pinstripe suit underneath. In retrospect, I remember him as dressed like the one mobster I did not have to meet, John Gotti. As soon as my eyes met his, I was knocked to the ground by a familiar blue-white blast (high voltage) like the one I had recently experienced in D. C.

When I came back around and my eyes refocused, Dante was holding me up. Reagan said, "Well, hello Kitten."

. . .

"Well, Kitten," Reagan said to me, "this is your death sentence: You'll go out in a blaze of glory." I was not surprised to receive confirmation of my imminent death by Reagan. I had heard about death by fire from seemingly everyone involved in establishing "free trade," through Mexico, of our children for drugs. Reagan's use of patriotic metaphors and puns while matter-of-factly informing me he ordered my death was reflective of his often displayed lack of respect for human life. What reflected his character even more were the crimes he was involved in that prompted him to cover-up through "sentencing" me to death. I had witnessed the criminal foundations of NAFTA, which in turn could threaten the successful implementation of the New World Order should these secrets ever be revealed. Initial 'free trade' including drugs and white slavery extended beyond the U.S./Mexican border. It routed U.S. traumatized, robotic, mind-controlled children into Saudi Arabia, while building up weapons stockpiles in Nicaragua and Iraq. Although I was considered to be no threat, predicated on the (erroneous) belief that I could not be deprogrammed to regain my memory of these events, my death would provide extra insurance to those involved. I was nearly "used up" anyway, and recording my death via "Snuff Film" was agreed upon as proof to De la Madrid and other leaders at risk, that I had indeed been silenced through death.

. . .

De la Madrid noticed Reagan was not laughing and said, "That's like crashing a Mercedes to film a stunt." He leaned forward in his chair closer to Reagan, lowered his voice and said, "It is my desire to have seven just like her roll off the assembly line and shipped to me prior to the agreement's completion."

Reagan agreed, responding, "Those (blonde haired, blue eyed) fine kids on the relay to Saudi Arabia are top of the line, but they don't have what she's got."

. . .

"OK. Well, farewell, Kitten," Reagan said, as he kissed my cheek.

. . .

My world spun black. Someone had hit me with a powerful stun gun and I was down, feeling as though Dante was half dragging me as he led me to his car, which was already idling in the circular drive. . .

. . .

After the opening of the Juarez border, I was kept actively busy according to the plan to "use me up" before my 30th birthday death sentence. I was subjected to a brutal (near death gang rape) "celebration benefit" at an identified Masonic Lodge in Warren, Ohio to "celebrate the free trade benefits" gained by involved East Coast politicos. Centers such as the nearby Youngstown "Charm School" went into mass production of slaves to mule drugs or be part of the mind-controlled sex slave "trance-sport" operations. Mexico was not the only country reaping the economic benefits of criminal free trade.

After Kelly's ordeal in California, Dante and Houston were criminally exploiting her for literally "all she was worth." Subsequently, she missed an extraordinary amount of schooling. When she was in school, she was experiencing difficulty with her peers. These factors prompted plans to send her to a local Catholic school the next year, where her unusual behavior would be overlooked and covered up.

Soon thereafter, Senator Byrd came to Nashville to fiddle at the Grand Ole Opry and, as my handler, Houston, remarked, "fiddle around with me" at the Opryland Hotel. Byrd explained that close association with me had become volatile due to my roles in Iran-Contra and NAFTA, and therefore he would be distancing himself from me. He spent most of "out last night together" working on his memoirs for a voluminous book on the U.S. Constitution he was writing (now published at taxpayers' expense), which focuses on his long-winded Senate (filibuster) speeches.

. . .

Byrd had not distanced himself too far from me, though, where government operations were concerned. When I was "over the rainbow" in D.C. during the summer of '87, it was business as usual with Byrd. I was escorted to Goddard Space Flight Center where Byrd was waiting for me in a sterile hallway near the brass-trimmed, mirrored elevators. He was loaded down with items, which he deposited on a small table as he greeted me. He picked up a NASA ID badge and clipped it on my nipple, then metal teeth biting me with their serrated edges. When I (softly) cried out, he said, "Oh, OK. I'll wear it," removed it, and clipped it on his white lab coat. He handed me a NASA lab coat like his and a white hard hat. His hard had suggestively said HARD in bold red letters. My had said NASA, in a mirror reversal of the standard bold red lettering. . . .It also clearly identified to those-in-the-know that I was under mind control.

. . .

Senator Patrick Leahy (D-Vermont), who served as vice chairman on the U.S. Senate Intelligence Committee in 1985-86, was a "friend" of Senator Byrd. Leahy's position on Byrd's Senate Appropriations Committee, coupled with his former position in Intelligence, afforded him an inordinate amount of power and influence. While I had cause to have contact with Senator Leahy on numerous occasions, Kelly was apparently more familiar with him than I.

. . .

The LL Bean outlet, located near the top of supposedly the highest mountain in the pristine forest, appeared to be a store front for CIA covert activity. When I asked the 'clerk' assigned to Kelly and me for a black, Swiss Army Knife, his response was indicative of familiarity with government covert operations. Using the old familiar statement (trigger), he ordered Kelly and me to "Walk this way," as he led us through a storage area and out the back door. There a black, unmarked helicopter was waiting on a pad for us.

The pilot flew us a short distance to the top of a mountain, where we landed in a clearing next to a house that appeared to have no other access. The place was run like a fortress, and two guards in suits met us as Kelly and I emerged from the helicopter. The guards escorted us into the house, keeping Kelly while I met with Senator Leahy.

. . .

I delivered the documents and message as ordered. Leahy then proceeded to explain that he was aware that my death was imminent due to my groundwork participation in NAFTA, and that subsequently Kelly would be traded to the West Coast pornography operation. Not only did he obviously want to join in on "using me up" before my 30th birthday, but he had "tracks" to cover-up where Kelly was concerned.

. . .

Kelly and I had been given what felt like a sophisticated variation of the NASA CIA-designer drug, Tranquility, which turned us into the robotic mind-controlled slaves that Senator Leahy preferred. As the drug was overtaking me, I attentively listened to what Leahy was saying.

. . .

Kelly was standing quietly and robotically just outside the door with the two guards. The ushered us down the hall, through an ornately carved door, and into Leahy's bedroom. The room was highly effeminate for a man, decorated in pastels, white eyelet, and huge billowy pillows. When the Senator walked in Kelly groaned, "Noooo, not you again." Leahy signaled Kelly with his hand, thus switching her into total silence and submission. . . .His pale skin looked even whiter against the white eyelet sheets, which seemed to accentuate the perversity of his pedophile actions with my daughter that I was forced to watch. His tortures complete, Leahy ordered Kelly and me to follow him downstairs to his "torture lab."

I had seen and experienced basement "spy conditioning" torture chambers before both in the U.S. and in Mexico, and Leahy's "torture lab" looked more like a NASA lab. His access to the latest advancements in electronic/drug mind-control technology was consistent with his ability to use it. I was immediately strapped to a cold, chrome and stainless steel table by the two guards. Leahy began reciting, "Cross your heart and hope to die, Stick a needle in your eye." A wirey "needle" was pushed slowly into my right eye while Kelly was forced to watch. This entire ordeal was directed for trauma purposes primarily at Kelly since Leahy figured I would be dead soon anyway. "If you holler, if you cry, Kelly will be the first to die. Pray to God and Bush will hear, because this Eye now has an ear."

. . .

While I was literally out of my mind from intense pain, Leahy utilized the opportunity to program me with what he said was financial information to deliver to Byrd.

. . .

I had photographically recorded numbers in my mind's "computer banks" ever since Leahy prepared me for the task some months before at White Sands Missile Base in New Mexico. It was there in the TOP SECRET mind-control area of the base that Leahy subjected me to extreme tortures and high-tech programming. Combining purposes as usual, Leahy was saying, "Funding will continue to be approved as long as (mind-control) Projects such as this continue to receive your full attention."

. . .

Saudi Arabia threaded in and out of most operations in which I was involved, primarily due to their purchase and routing of weapons, drugs, and blond-hair, blue-eyed programmed children. According to George Bush's claims, Saudi Arabia was in essence a controlled financial arm of the United States. Saudi Arabian King Fahd and his Ambassador to the U.S., Prince Bandar, provided a front for the unconstitutional and criminal covert operations of the U.S. This included the arming of Iraq and the Nicaraguan Contras; U.S. involvement in the Bank of Credit and Commerce International (B.C.C.I.) scandal; and funding of the Black Budget through purchase of our nation's children to be used as sex slaves and camel jockeys. Since the U.S. "won" control of the drug industries through the so-called Drug Wars, Saudi Arabia played an integral role in distribution. It was my experience that Bush's claim of having Saudi Arabian King Fahd as his puppet was, in fact, reality. It was only natural that criminal diplomatic relations with Mexico interface with Saudi Arabia under the circumstances.

. . .

The message that Reagan had me programmed with earlier that day was further evidence of this. I delivered Reagan's message to King Fahd as ordered:

"Greetings to King Fahd from President Reagan. The negotiations you are about to embark on are not only critical to the world peace process, but may solidify U.S.-Saudi relations beyond your wildest expectations. You have my word that what appears to be the building up of forces in Iraq is but a mirage in the whirlwind. And when this operation is completed and the dust finally settles, you will see that the sands have shifted in time, running out on our adversaries and shifting all power and control to our united effort. United we stand to conquer all in the name of world peace and world order, and I am confident that together we can not fail. The more Saddam destroys is that much less for us to do and deal with when we implement the Order. . . ."

. . .

Just before Kelly and I were to leave for California, Mark asked me to help him force Houston out of business by providing him with the files on suspected (corporate) criminal activity that Houston kept hidden at our house. Not only did I gladly do so, but "somehow" I was able to ask for help in return. I asked him to help Kelly and me get away from Houston before I was killed and Kelly was sentenced to a fate worse than death.

. . .

"Wake up, sleeping beauty," Mark said as a gently roused me with a cup of fresh coffee. "Welcome to a new day."

My eyes opened. I had never experienced such kindness before, and it seemed like a whole new world to me. . .

. . .

February 4, 1988 marked the beginning of life for Kelly and me, free from our mind-controlled existence. It also marked the beginning of a new kind of survival as we embarked on "The Most Dangerous Game" of international proportions. Despite death threats and attempts, intimidation and cover-ups, we have survived these past years by refusing to keep secrets. . .

As quickly as the accuracy of my deprogramming notes were corroborated and/or verified, abstracts of various experiences and identification of abusers were vastly disseminated.

Absolute mind control was the only existence we knew until Mark Phillips rescued my then 8-year old daughter, Kelly, and me directly from the CIA/DIA's MK-Ultra Project Monarch in 1988. Though a series of carefully orchestrated events, Mark cleverly maneuvered our mind-controlled handler, Alex Houston, into a position of "trust" that provided him the latitude to lift us free of our existence unscathed. When my "owner," U.S. Senator Robert C. Byrd, and other so-called leaders of our country involved in the Project realized the problem Alex Houston's bumbling had created, Mark took us to the safety of Alaska where be began remembering that which we were supposed to forget.

As my eyes opened and I woke up to reality, I became enraged. Enraged for the traumas inflicted on my daughter. Enraged for a lifetime of abuse at the hands of our country's so-called "leaders." Enraged that the American public had no idea as to who or what was/is running their country. Mark helped me refocus my rage in a productive direction when he told me, "The best revenge is a total recovery."


more at:

TRANCE Formation of America is the first documented autobiography of a victim of government mind control. Cathy O'Brien is the only vocal and recovered survivor of the Central Intelligence Agency's MK-Ultra Project Monarch operation. Tracing her path from child pornography and recruitment into the program to serving as a top-level intelligence agent and White House sex slave, TRANCE Formation of America is a definitive eye-witness account of government corruption that implicates some of the most prominent figures in U.S. politics.
read chapters of the book, and buy the book:
http://www.trance-formation.com/

9-11 Director CHENEY RAPES CHILDREN and has a history of playing HUNT THE HUMAN in Wyoming with 25 comments
author: excerpt, testimony
http://portland.indymedia.org/en/2003/12/277523.shtml

The Franklin Cover-Up: Child Abuse, Satanism, and Murder in Nebraska
by John W. Decamp
link to www.amazon.com

Secret Agenda: The United States Government, Nazi Scientists, and Project Paperclip, 1945 to 1990
by Linda Hunt
link to www.amazon.com

Thy Will Be Done: The Conquest of the Amazon: Nelson Rockefeller and Evangelism in the Age of Oil
by Gerard Colby, et al
link to www.amazon.com

http://portland.indymedia.org/en/2004/02/280183.shtml