![]() The Ruling Classby don - 2022-05-11 02:13:24 ( in education, research) [php version] rebuildIf you haven't read her book, here's a lot of it: Cathy O'Brien: The Tranceformation of America * trance.movie * trance-formation.com Cathy O'Brien was sold into Project Monarch, one of the 149 known sub-projects of the CIA'S MK ULTRA Experiments that began in 1953. These secret programs were initiated by governing jurisdictions in an effort to understand and utilize mind control to further another agenda. Being a victim of the elite's Monarch Program. as a slave Cathy was exposed to many world leaders at the national and international levels. Through her rescue and healing process, she was able to reclaim the memories of what she witnessed while under mind control. Her story provides insight into how we've been controlled in the past, where we are going as a nation and how to reclaim personal and collective sovereignty. This is her story. This is our story. Directed by: Adrienne Youngblood Produced by: Adrienne Youngblood, Isabella Antinoro, Roger R. Richards Starring: Cathy O'Brien Categories: Documentary, Disclosure */Warning: Graphic/* _*/Chapter 1/*_ */MY INTRODUCTION TO HUMANITY/* */By Cathy O'Brien/* My pedophile father, Earl O'Brien, brags that he began substituting his penis for my mother's nipple soon after I was born. My multigenerational incest-abused mother, Carol Tanis, did not protest his perverse actions due to (reportedly) having similar abuse as a child which caused her to acquire Multiple Personality Disorder. My earliest recovered memory was that I could not breathe with my father's penis jammed into my little throat. /The late Earl O'Brien -- Pho Michigan Sports Hall of Fame/ Yet I could not discern his semen from my mother's milk. I do not recall thinking, but I AM aware through education that this early sexual abuse distorted my primitive concepts of feeding, breathing, sexuality, and parental perceptions. I recall as a toddler being unable to run (I could barely walk) to my mother for help as my instincts demanded. Through my gulping sobs, my terror rose as I tried to clear my throat of my father's semen and draw a breath of air. My mother finally arrived at my side. Rather than comfort me, she accused me of throwing a temper tantrum and "holding my breath". She responded only by throwing a glass of cold water in my face. I was shocked! As the water splashed my face, I knew she would not help and it was up to me to save myself. I automatically Multiple Personality Disordered. I was, of course, too young to logically understand that what my father was doing to me was wrong. I accepted his strangling sexual abuse as a normal and natural part of my home life, and split off a personality to deal with the pain and suffocation to satisfy his perversions. Therefore as a child, I was dissociative of my father's abuse. I was totally unable to recall his sexual abuse, even in his presence, until I saw and felt his penis. By the time I joined the Brownies, my father's sexual exploitation of me included prostitution to his friends, local mobsters and Masons, relatives, Satanists, strangers, and police officers. When I wasn't being worked to physical exhaustion, filmed pornographically, prostituted, or engaged in incest abuse, I dissociated into books. I had learned to read at the young age of four due to my photographic memory which was a natural result of MPD/DID. Government researchers involved in MK-Ultra Project Monarch knew about the photographic memory aspect of MPD/DID, of course, as well as other resultant "super human" characteristics. Visual acuity of an MPD/DID is 44 times greater than that of the average person. My developed unusually high pain threshold, plus compartmentalization of memory were "necessary" for military and covert operations applications. Additionally, my sexuality was primitively twisted from infancy. This programming was appealing and useful to perverse politicians who believed they could hide their actions deep within my memory compartments, which clinicians refer to as personalities. My Uncle Bob helped my father decorate my bedroom in red, white, and blue paneling and American flags. He provided assistance in scrambling my mind according to Project Monarch methodologies. Fairy tale themes were used to confuse fantasy with reality, particularly Disney stories and the Wizard of Oz, which provided the base for future programming. I had personalities for pornography, a personality for bestiality, a personality for incest, a personality for withstanding the horrendous psychological abuse of my mother, a personality for prostitution, and the rest of "me" functioned somewhat "normally" at school. My "normal" personality provided a cover for the abuse I was enduring, but best of all it had hope- hope that there was somewhere in the world where people did not hurt each other. This same personality also attended Catechism, a weekly class at our Catholic church, St. Francis de Sales in Muskegon, Michigan. I continued to maintain an illusion of normalcy for school, excelling in my studies due to my photographic memory and in spite of my chronic "day-dreaming". I had plenty of friends and played enthusiastically at recess, expending large amounts of energy in my subconscious effort to escape my own mind. And I lost myself in the books my father suggested I read: the Wizard Of Oz, Alice In Wonderland, Island of the Blue Dolphins, Disney Classics, and Cinderella—all of which were used in conditioning my mind for what soon would become mind-control programming. My television viewing was restricted and monitored in keeping with my father's gained knowledge. I was, however permitted to watch the "best" of movies: The Wizard Of Oz, Disney Classics, Alice In Wonderland, and Cinderella—over and over and over again. When I was in second grade, my Brownie Troop marched in the Memorial Day Parade in which then Michigan State Senator VanderJagt also participated. At the end of the parade, he took me into a nearby motel and had me per-form oral sex on him before sending me back to where my Brownie Troop was waiting. My Brownie leader and peers thought it commendable that VanderJagt took me with him. They gathered around to hear all about it. I noticed a white splash of semen on my sash, and hurriedly explained that he had "taken me for a milkshake" as I wiped it away. Having to cover for his perversion to my Brownie Troop infringed on my school personality, and the "normal" remainder became even smaller. /The late Senator Guy VanderJagt/ With the memory of this incident compartmentalized in my mind, I made no conscious association to VanderJagt when my third grade teacher announced that we were taking a field trip to the State Capital in Lansing, Michigan where he was in session. Once at the Capital, I was ushered away from my classmates and taken to an office where he was waiting with his friend and mentor (soon to be President) Gerald Ford. VanderJagt lifted my skirt, pulled down my panties, and placed me on his desk for sex with him and Ford. Afterward they laughed as VanderJagt placed a small American flag in my rectum and instructed me to wave it. He then presented me with a Kennedy pen inscribed with the motto that would lead me for the rest of my mind-con-trolled existence, "Ask not what your country can do for you. Ask what you can do for your country." VanderJagt then escorted me back to the balcony of the Legislature where my classmates were gathered. He put his arm around me in front of all my classmates and presented me with the American flag he had just had me wave for him and Ford with my rectum. My school personality split off again, but I still maintained the hope that somewhere, someday, I would find a place where people didn't ... what? I could not remember what I was seeking to escape. /_Trance-Formation of America_/
https://www.bibliotecapleyades.net/s...sformation.htm Parent Post Quick reply to this message Reply Reply With Quote Reply With Quote Multi-Quote This Message Thanks Bookmark Post 4. The Following 3 Users Say Thank You to Bluegreen For This Post: ClearWater (Today), mojo (Today), RunningDeer (Yesterday) 5. Yesterday 23:34 Link to Post #83 *Bluegreen* Bluegreen is offline United States Avalon Member Bluegreen's Avatar Join Date 18th July 2014 Location Ø Language ¿ Posts 8,310 Thanks 40,838 Thanked 40,759 times in 7,618 posts Default Re: Cathy O'Brien: The Tranceformation of America /Each chapter is a major undertaking, and some chapters may not be transferable to this format. The idea of doing the whole book is intriguing but daunting, to say the least. We''ll see how this goes .../ *** */THE RITE TO REMAIN SILENT/* */_Chapter 2_/* When Pierre Trudeau was elected Prime Minister of Canada in 1968, I often heard it said, "Pierre Trudeau is one of Ours, you know." I first heard this phrase cryptically referring to Trudeau's loyalty to the Vatican when Father was discussing him with my father one Sunday after mass. This fact circulated quickly among those I knew who were involved in the Catholic/Jesuit aspect of Project Monarch. /The late Pierre Trudeau/ The summer after Trudeau was elected, my father took the family to Mackinac Island as usual. Climbing on a large statue on the grounds of the Governor's Mansion, I could see across the field to the Grand Hotel. I noticed Canadian flags flying amongst the American flags that lined the front of the old hotel. As I slid down off the statue, Guy VanderJagt approached with a drink and a cigarette in his hand. Palling my hair into place he said, "Straighten your shirt, I've got someone important for you to meet," "I knew someone important was here because of those flags," I said, tucking my shirt in my pink shorts. "When I was at the Vatican," VanderJagt began, "I was told that Prime Minister Trudeau is a friend of the Pope. He thinks like one of us. A true Catholic. He likes Cathy-licks." /VanderJadt/ VanderJagt led me upstairs in the mansion, where Pierre Trudeau was lowering the window shades in a dimly lit bedroom crowded with antiques. VanderJagt closed the door behind me. Trudeau's tuxedo coat was neatly draped over a chair, which left him in his formal pants, while shirt, and a bright red cummerbund which caught my eye. "I like your sash," I said. "Hasn't anyone taught you Silence yet?" His somber, gruff attitude was softened by his smooth, silky voice. Triggered into the part of me that endured the Rite to Remain Silent, I assumed Trudeau knew all about interdimensions according to my deliberately formed perceptions. I could not/did not understand that interdimensions actually equated to the inner-dimensions of my own compartmentalized mind. Likewise, I did not understand that "Keys to the Kingdom" referred to knowing the codes, keys, and triggers to my controlled mind. "Guy said you like Cathy-licks," I said, repeating what VanderJagt had told me. "Are you the Keeper of the Keys?" Trudeau seemingly bore his cold, dark eyes right through me. "You can learn more from the school of thought than you can by asking precocious questions. Haven't you learned that children are to be seen and not heard?" "Is that a precocious question?" I asked. "What is a precocious question?" Trudeau sighed with impatience. "That is irrelevant. What matters is that you shut your mouth, still your mind, and enter the school of thought. Silence is a virtue. Listen to the silence in the stillness of your mind. Go deep inside your mind," he slowly led. "Deeper and deeper where it's quiet and still..." Trudeau expertly manipulated my mind with sophisticated hypnotic language. Not only did he enlist my Silence for the pedophile perversions he indulged in, but he instructed my "school of thought" in a manner that equated to programming. He laid a foundation for Air-Water programs that is a mirror- dimensional theme often used by NASA and others involved in Project Monarch. Playing off his own name "Pee-Air," he added a perverse twist to the theme that he accessed each time I was prostituted to him. Had I been capable of fear, I would have been afraid of Pierre Trudeau. Trudeau's slow, deliberate movements masked the brutal power of his body much the way his smooth, soft voice pierced my mind and intruded on my thoughts. The icy cold touch of his effeminate, manicured long fingers contrasted with the heat of his perversion ... a perversion for which he blamed me and my "temptuous, contemptuous ways". I was slow to grow into adolescence. By the time I was thirteen years old, my breasts were tender and beginning to swell, which made me "too old" for VanderJagt's pedophile perversions. When my father brought me to Mackinac Island for routine prostitution at the Political Retreat, VanderJagt introduced me to a new friend he had made now that he was in Washington, D.C. as a U.S. Congressman-U.S. Senator Robert C. Byrd, Democrat from West . Source: https://youtube.com/watch?v=8BouPR8ZczI Byrd had been a U.S. Senator as long as I had been alive, serving as Senate Whip and later as President Pro Tempore of the Senate and as the all powerful Senate Appropriations leader. Byrd commanded attention and respect from all who came in contact with him, particularly from my father. When we were left alone in his room, he loomed over me in a threatening stance. His cold, blue slitty eyes locked onto mine. I undressed and climbed into his bed as ordered. I was momentarily relieved to find that his penis was abnormally tiny—so small it didn't even hurt! And I could breathe with it in my mouth! Then he began to indulge himself in his brutal perversions, talking on and on about how I was "made just for him" due to the vast amounts of pain I could withstand. The spankings and police handcuffs I had previously endured were child's play compared to Senator Byrd's near death tortures. The hundreds of scars on my body still show today. With VanderJagt, sex was a matter of "how much I could give," whereas with Byrd it was "how much I could take". And I was forced to take mote pain than any human could logically withstand. I was dedicated to Byrd at age thirteen which meant he would be directing my future in Project Monarch, and my father would raise me according to his specifications. My MPD/DID existence became more regimented from that point on. I was kept physically worn down to the point of exhaustion in order that I be sufficiently receptive to my father's limited hypnotic programming capabilities to condition my mind for mind control. The pornography I was forced to anticipate in became much more violent immediately after Byrd, switching me from predominantly pedophile and bestiality themes to torturous versions of sadomasochism (S&M). My father and mother worked in tandem daily to "break my spirit," destroying any remnants left of my self-confidence, tearing down my self-esteem, and thus annihilating my free will urges. They conditioned/taught me my dreams were reality and my reality were dreams, that black is white and up is down. "Good night, sleep tight, dream about your mommy and daddy" is what I heard every night. This was intended to confuse my mind to believe incest in the middle of the night was "just a bad dream". My father also instructed me to watch Alfred Hitchcock's horrifying movie The Birds with him. This reinforced in my mind the movie's theme that there is "no place to hide from the birds/Byrd". I was quickly beginning to lose all ability to question anything but my own judgment. It was easy to believe that there was indeed "no place to run, no place to hide," which is a necessary and primary psychological basis for government/military mind control. In later years, "who ya' gonna call?" and Ronald Reagan's quip "you can run, but you can't hide" echoed deep within my mind. After all, even if I could think to seek help, who would help me? The police? The church? My parents? Relative? Politicians? School? There was no one left that would help me, I sensed. My television programming was then expanded to include the shows that every Project Monarch Mind-Control slave I knew had to watch: I Dream Of , The Brady Bunch, Gumby And Pokey, and Bewitched. I could relate to the Genie pleasing her master, who was a Major for the Air Force in I Dream Of . This served to confuse the reality of my own experiences with the fantasy of television production. I told all outsiders that my family was "just like the Bradys". Through Gumby And Pokey I was led to believe that I was as flexible as these animated clay performers. Therefore, I was capable of being physically maneuvered into any sexual position. Meanwhile, my father took us all to church every Sunday, and my mother stayed busy having babies to raise in the Project. In true pedophile fashion, he surrounded himself with children by coaching little league sports, chaperoning school and Catechism activities, and becoming involved with the Boy Scouts. All of this made him appear to be a model citizen and "pillar of the community". The illusion was fanned. The parts of me that knew otherwise had no choice but to remain silent. Parent Post Quick reply to this message Reply Reply With Quote Reply With Quote Multi-Quote This Message Thanks Bookmark Post 6. The Following 2 Users Say Thank You to Bluegreen For This Post: mojo (Today), RunningDeer (Today) 7. Yesterday 23:43 Link to Post #84 *Bluegreen* Bluegreen is offline United States Avalon Member Bluegreen's Avatar Join Date 18th July 2014 Location Ø Language ¿ Posts 8,310 Thanks 40,838 Thanked 40,759 times in 7,618 posts Default Re: Cathy O'Brien: The Tranceformation of America */My First President/* */_Chapter 3_/* */By Cathy O'Brien/* 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.webp 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 s" 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. /Susan Ford and her father, Gerald/ 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. Parent Post Quick reply to this message Reply Reply With Quote Reply With Quote Multi-Quote This Message Thanks Bookmark Post 8. The Following 3 Users Say Thank You to Bluegreen For This Post:
(Today), mojo (Today), RunningDeer (Today) 9. Today 02:15 Link to Post #85 *Bluegreen* Bluegreen is offline United States Avalon Member Bluegreen's Avatar Join Date 18th July 2014 Location Ø Language ¿ Posts 8,310 Thanks 40,838 Thanked 40,759 times in 7,618 posts Default Re: Cathy O'Brien: The Tranceformation of America */The Most Dangerous Game/* _*/Chapter 4/*_ 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". /33rd Degree Mason Uncle Bob Tanis/ 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 I saw 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. /MacDill AFB – Tampa, Florida/ 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 and Vice President to George Bush Jr, documented member of the Council on Foreign Relations (CFR), 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. Parent Post Quick reply to this message Reply Reply With Quote Reply With Quote Multi-Quote This Message Thanks Bookmark Post 10. The Following User Says Thank You to Bluegreen For This Post: (Today) 11. Today 02:24 Link to Post #86 *Bluegreen* Bluegreen is offline United States Avalon Member Bluegreen's Avatar Join Date 18th July 2014 Location Ø Language ¿ Posts 8,310 Thanks 40,838 Thanked 40,759 times in 7,618 posts Default Re: Cathy O'Brien: The Tranceformation of America 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. /Dick Cheney – Always pissed off/ 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. Source: https://youtube.com/watch?v=t_SkF5igE6o 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 ston, 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. /O'Brien's future husband, Wayne Cox/ 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. /Nashville's (then) abandoned train station/ Cox ordered me to "kiss the railroad bum good-bye," then shot him between the eyes while I was still only inches away. 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. similar posts here ... and elsewhere
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