Security theater, directed conversation, and the FBI: my vague (for now) recollections of a garage sale

You are driving along one or another Los Angeles street, when you see the sign “Moving Sale–everything must go! >>>>>>”

The arrow points in a certain direction. The last thing on your mind is meeting an international target of CIA and FBI gang stalking, but there you have it, in black and white.

For Sale: House, and everything must go!

Someone beyond that arrow, lies a targeted individual, but you don’t know that yet. You will soon learn it. You will soone learn that someone at the end of that arrow is being targeted by the FBI, that they have locked her daughter in jail, and are squeezing hr for information about her relationship with the vice president of Afghanistan (circa 2003-2010, maybe before).


Somewhere between the flashlights that need batteries for half a dollar, the worn shoes that would fit a little girl, and the carpets that were woven by Kurds, lies a truth you cannot immediately discern.

And somewhere around the small gas generator, and the worn sandals made of goatskin for a tribal marriage, you will hear this:

“Oh my god! If only I could talk to my daughter! But they have cameras and listening gear on that tlephone pole! They took her just yesterday, and they will not let me speak to her!”

She is pointing to a telephone pole, just next to the freeway. Nothing is immediately apparent–no “device” is visible, per se. Just some messed up wires, hanging down, and what might have been fresh ladder marks, or the scrapings of a bucket trucks basket on the ancient pole

The daughter, daughter of an Afghan refugee, maybe an undergrad in medicine, or law, has been locked away in a secret prison, somewhere within the CIA-FBI apparatus right there in the United States of America–the most “free” country in thwe world!!–she had violated some unwritten rule of “freedom of association” which triggered an FBI memo and then what is called a “disruption campaign”–and Fusion Center monitoring.

Let’s say her father–who at all times ran a car dealership, cooperated with Americas secret police, and did what they told him to do with all of his cars for several decades–suddenly gets beat up by one or another local police force, on slim pretext, forcing him to sue for his rights.

What a way to convince a young woman that “the good guys” are her friends, ay?


This is why they call them “gangs” of “stalkers.”

Whereupon information, the daughter has fractured a “law” and incurred obligations to some legal strategem or another–and was dutifully locked up by America’s secret police. No lawyer visits, no calls to her friends or family–just locked up in America’s gulag system.

Let’s pretend for a minute that America has laws, or that the secret poolice there respect them.

Let’s imagine that these people have a lawyer friend or relative in Minnesota who shares her name–let’s pretend that that lawyer friend has her own connections in various governments–and lets pretend that those connections can save her in such moments, except….

Nashunul Sekurity!

I didn’t buy the carafe’ if you are wondering, because I had a feeling that my own house was being tossed at that moment.

My instincts were incorrect, of course–that weird “testing the hypotheses” thingy.

No, my house wasn’t tossed that day, because only later, as the retired United States Air Force liason to the Israeli Mossad infiltrated my Twitter feed, and gangs of goons were running around outside my house at night–only the, as I wrote about them, was my house tossed.

And that is pretty much where I left the story, last time I encountered it.

I have known or met so many people in such situations that it defie logic–defies law.

As such, I write what I write, and you can gauge the veracity of my truth according to that. But each and every targeted individual has a similar story–this is just one of many that I sat on for a very long time, as I was being stalked ny “the corporation,” and its goons.

Later that day, in the alley behind your house, you unload the half a dollar flashlight, and the Kurdish rug. And “Doug,” the former military intelligence guy–your “neighbor” who moved in about the same time you did–is wanting to talk about–of all things, how “they” got his daughter involved in a “cult.”

He ressures you, one eye open, one eye shut, that he can spot Satanshould anyone ever need such a skill.

I. weary from that day’s story, am pretty damn sure I can do better than that.

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