Upon Putin’s “rushed arrival” and meeting with his French counterpart at the VIA, GRU analysts in this report say, a “visibly distraught” President Hollande began detailing how his countries DGSE had informed him of their uncovering of an Obama regime plot to stage a massive false flag terror attack which the blame of which would be placed on Russia.”
And in this case the blame was Putin, I mean, put in the extremists.
Sanctions or War... So THAT´s the question... Seriously? Syria is the target now with this terrorism attack in Paris. But let´s go back to the Boston Marathon attack two years ago, and you see some similarities, with the same M.O.: They were two brothers; the terrorists in Paris left an ID (very convenient) so apropos for the police to find out that they were two Muslims brothers too, infiltrated in the society. They were cells who acted like normal people but ready anytime when “activated”. If that´s not a brainwash or an implant in the brain...
There is even a cartoonist who supported the ones who were killed in the attack, drawing a somewhat similar scene referring to the September eleven attacks, which instead of the twin towers it was showing two pencils in place and an airplane just about to hit them both. An airplane in the Twin Tower makes the symbol A11 or 911, which in turn means All or Apollo 11, all symbols of only one group, one organized crime instigating fear to people to establish a New World Order.
To quote the quotes in the writings of a destroyed human mind manipulated by the elite that made us (represented by Jack Nicholson´s character) in Kubrick´s (and yes, yet another “Cube Brick”) movie “The Shinning” all like a machine (and notice that his son in the movie wears a blouse with a neat knitted Apollo 11 drawing):
“All work and no play make Jack a dumb boy...” Okay, so vain and insane!
You may also find Stanley Kubrick Exposition at the Museum of Image and Sound: in Sao Paulo through my youtube channel:
http://www.youtube.com/user/anabowlova
Kubrick who also created a whole scenario in the outer space with his 2001 Odyssey of Space also had made with the same technique a whole new story around “the men in the moon who came down too soon”. Let me tell you, that´s such a mind blowing! And that also takes us back to Marilyn Monroe assassins.
“What the heck MM has to do with all this?” you might as well ask.
Those are the same responsible for her to be shut up because she knew about them. They are the same ones who manipulate the masses and make a president their puppet today.
“There is no way to take it slightly, or to start pounding this down like M&M´s. And MM (I mean Marilyn Monroe and not the double check Marx & MaoTse-Tung) had so hit the nail in the head. There was something that she knew since then and it continues to be that way up to this day. Nothing changed and I mean anything at all.”
“Anything at all... again the word “all” or A11... And what did not change?” I ask. I´m afraid I have been misled down to here.
“That all nations are bankrupt names in business ruled by corrupted minds. That they have a Geo-physical weapon which includes the modification of weathers, whether would it be to cause no rain in some areas while devastating other parts with flood, or fire, hurricanes, earthquakes, chem-trails, bio-tech, check, tic-tact, tack, etc. And she was about to reveal all that too when she was cowardly murdered. And we still cannot see the strings that pull the ball...”
“A man made hurricane... what the hurry, Citizen Kane?”
“Rosebud...” said Kane before he died.
“That´s right, put that in the records!”
“And what we ought to do with all this info here??”
Pocket up the best and shake out the rest.
And the day came when the butterfly broke up from its cocoon because staying inside proved to be way too painful
“Je suis Charlie!” It was written everywhere. That phrase was spread during the whole ordeal as it had been alleged that the terrorists, upon entering the building, asked an employee, “Qui est Charlie?” Who was Charlie? As they were looking for the director of the journal whose name was Stephane Charbonnier but he was better known as Charb. Already suffering many threats, he said that he would rather die standing up then down on his knees. In his last cartoon he wrote the words: “(It´s 2015 and) we don´t have any terrorist attacks in France yet?” And he drew a terrorist saying, “Wait! We still have until the end of January to make our vows of a New Year!” And exactly one week after the New Year celebration they were cruelly assassinated the director and four cartoonists among their colleagues. And they were all “Charlie” for they all played a role in that weekly charge magazine.
“And the day came when the risk to remain tight in a bud was more painful than the risk it took to blossom” Anaïs Nin
He had a nervous breakdown after his stepmother had decided to marry a Turkish billionaire that she had just met at a client's wedding that she had to attend in Ibiza. The American bride, actually her father, had paid for her expenses, for the bride wanted to wear a wedding dress in the same fashion as Marilyn Monroe did when she sang “Happy Birthday” for the president. There were real diamonds supposed to fit in every thread, and she had to sew the fabric directly into the bride's body. And she was Queen size. Hours of labor were spent before the ceremony. But well worth applied for that it implied her to meet a billionaire. Dawson thought his stepmother's heart belonged to him and after she found out a substitute for such volatile feeling, he started taking Zoloft ever since. He became wild. Now he lives in a Zoo loft. Really! It's a loft that they built for him, right inside the Zoo, in order for him to keep a 24/7 job routine, no sleeping and always working, feeding the animals at the National Park. That's what the jury decided in his case as a form of penalty before taking him into imprisonment. That's until he joined the monkeys and started throwing peanuts at the public.
Well, that was way before he got shot and was killed by the police anyway. And if you think that police force in Brazil or in the US, well, in the majority of the countries in all Americas is violent, I've got only two words for you...
Jean Charles!
“Dawson’s dead, Dawson’s dead!” A parrot cried out loud.
“Damn son is dad... Damn so is dad...” the monkeys repeated the bird, in a mockery, agitated in their own cages.
Dawson was her half-brother AND her father at the same time. And in spite of their ages difference, he was nineteen when she was born, Christie didn't stop having feelings for him. She always felt so close to him... And that was exactly why he couldn't marry her. They were way too close. It was so much so, that they shared the same blood. It was the biggest top secret that her mother kept from her. And if you find it hard to conceive (and no pun intended) that a parent would fall in love with a foster child, again I've got only two words for you: Woody Allen.
And now he was dead. Dawson, I mean, her dad. And if added to that, her mother's tongue was a tomb. This big secret was now buried with him for good....
....Or for bad, too bad! His stepmother forbade him of saying a word. She would never forgive him if he spilled that out, for Christie sake.
Now she could finally breath in a sigh of relief. Her secret was then very well-kept six feet under.
He died just like Jean Charles... the Brazilian young man who was cowardly murdered in England, shot six times in the head, dead by the London Police Department in a somewhat weird persecution. Just after that they would find out that he was no terrorist and that he carried no gun or any kind of weapon over his backpack. The same police that we had in Brazil, which by the way was trained by the British intelligence, the ones still in the age of stone; they first shoot then ask. We are living a civil war, or we just don´t know it yet.
She couldn’t believe her eyes. He tried to run away from the police while being transferred to another prison and now he was dead. It all happened the same afternoon, just after she left that psychic place. Oh, he was dead, and she still cannot believe that!
She mourned his death l
ike a widow would do. She wore black for the next five months after that horrendous accident. Christie kept the picture on her mind’s eye of him running from the two policemen as they were still trying to stop him. He fell on the ground, they tried to grab him, and then... She heard a shot. And after that, everything looked dark in her mind.
Christie goes back in a tunnel to the days when they were still dating. She hadn't seen him for ages. He looked as old as his father and now he stood in the middle of the street right there where he got shot on his chest. She was wondering how much of heartbreak he could take anyway. He missed her that much. After a big fight they had gone to a coffeehouse. They waited on line.
"Are you together?" The attendant asked.
"Not for long!" Christie said.
At this freaking party a man gave her a bunch of herbs to smoke. She neglected him.
He took her hand and he pulled up a white powder over her nose. She didn’t want to inhale that thing that he kept pulling in her nostrils. And there she breathed that substance inside her lungs. And she could not help anymore, as she opened her mouth and he closed it instead, with his teeth chewing her lips, yet she had to breathe. His mouth was soft as cotton and it had a sweet taste.
“I cannot breathe... I cannot breathe!” She said as he kept pounding the powder over her nose and his tongue over her throat.
Christie was way too high to care about what was really happening. She lost her senses and she became part of the ritual. She completely gave up fighting against that man who insisted on making her inhale the white stuff and she was about to fain when she heard a sharp and intense cry.
A tall long haired man came and kissed her. He pressed his both hands over her chest and inserted his entire tongue on her mouth. Now he pulled her tongue out.
“He doesn´t have the nerve to treat me like a doll...” she thought in a state of shock. “ I cannot move and he doesn’t really care if he is hurting me...”
“Hey, what are you doing?” Christie finally said, looking desperately right into his eyes. She thought that he could hear what she was saying then. But the fact was that she could not spell a word, if she was the one under a spell.
She heard another cry of a higher pitch penetrating in the dark.
She looked around. Everybody looked like they were moving in a kind of slow motion dance, but now they seemed to be part of an electrical parade. The whole floor shook as she tried to balance herself up and she felt the floor trembling like an earthquake, as she could not feel the earth beneath her feet. She was totally taken under the effects of a hallucinatory and revolutionary commotion. And only that dread and vertiginous sensation remained.
“The girl is dead!”
The police would arrive soon.
“What are they talking about?” Christie was about to have a sort of mental breakdown. She started to shiver and looked at all directions searching for a clue of what was really going on. “I must have lost the whole scene!”
“Her name is Cindy Ferraz...” a girl with a pink lace in a pony tail told her. She was wearing a polka dot dress matching her white shoes with black dots, in a shocking check-mate like playing a game of chess. Her red-blondish hair was so thick that she had often stuck her pinky fake nails around it to keep the lace in her ponytail up. And her hips balanced her dress side by side, as she casually passed by and walked through the ballroom. She almost burst into laughter as she kept reporting the incident as a mere occasional situation. “Like Cinderella, she came so beautifully dressed, and she even sang with that rapper.”
“And now she is a total wrap,” the long haired guy said.
“She took some drugs, and she started to have slight seizures which lead her to a serious epileptic attack. I think that she had an overdose.... she was vomiting her lungs out of her chest.”
“I know her!” The girl with the pink lace continued to say that to anyone who would question what happened. As if that knowledge would add her flair and give her a touch of glamour.
“She is a model-slash-actress-slash-singer-slash-dancer and she was about to finish another Colombian Soap Opera.”
But how the heck she ended up like that?
“You killed her?” Christie yelled at them in a desperate look, while a man tried to force the exit and leave the place.
They stopped. They could not force their way out of the building. Right in front of the door there was a yellow tape all around it wrapping and trapping them to remain inside.
The police arrived. It was already too late to attempting an escapade. They started to make questions to the whole group.
Christie tried to leave and started to sneak out of the room where the ritual was set, but one of the policemen there grabbed her arm. She forced her way out to escape from his hand as she intended to run away as fast as she could, even if for that she had to leave her hand behind.
“Wait a minute there, young lady! Where do you think you are going?” said another man inside a black car, with a pale face like a ghost,. He reached her as she tried her way out.
“Ah! I don’t know anything about it. Just let me go!”
The police officer stood in front of her, hurting her as he grabbed her hand in a very forceful way. He saw that she was about to beat him hard and then he pulled her closer to him, raising her skirt opening her legs wide, leaving them spread close to him. She tried to get away from the lace that the cop formed with his hands over her waist, while he retained her with his body against her back. And as he pulled her closer and closer against him, she could smell the plastic material from his new uniform. She could feel his breath too: such a stench that was coming from his mouth....
“Let me go!” It was a horrendous odor in an arduous night. Her head was in a whirl.
A man in his early thirties, wearing a leather coat, with a skin as soft as a gentle soap, touched her arm and disengaged her from the other officer’s hands, and he disarmed her with his smile. She looked at him; he was tall and had the most charming face
“Let her go!” He said as he showed her his badge. She jumped between the two of them and reached out towards the exit.
“Don´t be afraid!” he said as he grabbed a cold beer from the bar. He came towards her and held her up a foot from the floor. The other policeman just held her in the other side, supporting his companion.
“How come?” She said while still trying to disengage from them both. She swept her arms up and down, making circles in the air in an attempt to get rid of the brutes.
“Thirsty?” He offered her a sip of beer from his glass.
She turned his glass downward and splashed the whole beer over his face making him be obliged to let herself go. He set the empty glass over the bar and flashed his badge once again over her face.
“Trust me, I work for the Government.”
Christie was still trying to escape when he grabbed her arm back to him, as he was holding her until she gave up fighting.
“We won´t hurt you.” He said looking right into her eyes.
“How am I supposed to believe that if you already hurt me?”
He slowed her down, as he kept his badge scrubbed over her face. She then noticed that he was supposedly a detective.
Christie was still incredulous. He looked at her face and smiled once again. She could not help and she smiled right back at his silver grayish eyes. She could barely hear his voice of a strong soft and mild tone all at the same time.
“What is your name, sweetie?”
She didn't say a word.
“Cat cut your tongue?” said the other officer.
Was she afraid of saying her name and revealing her ID?
“Oh, I forgot my name...” She was not kidding after all. Christie was so overwhelmed by the whole scenario that she completely forgot who she was only for a few seconds. A few seconds only... then she was back on track. But the detective was simply following instructions and the tactics to get information which he had learned a long ago in his years of practice back at Quan
tico, in Virginia.
“Did you know that girl?”
“Not particularly, no! But she is famous, isn’t she?”
A silence. What a dreadful silence. He would not talk. She just wanted to go back home. He made notes in a white sheet.
“She was strangulated...”
“Oh, my... But I thought...I mean, they said...she had an overdose...” Christie looked like a contortionist, tweaking her eyebrow, turning her face and neck to one side and her upper body to the other side, her hips shaking side to side. She was confused, with a twisted mind overwhelmed by the whole event.
“Who is here to help you? Is there anybody to take you home?”
She looked around trying to find her boyfriend, but he was long gone.
“Look, baby. I am not going to take you into prison; you didn’t do anything. At least, that is what I believe. If you don’t tell me who you are, or show me any ID, I will have to take you to the police department and start to ask you questions while you have a cup of coffee to clear up your mind, do you understand?”
“Well, I do understand....” She thought.
“Cup of coffee sounds not bad...” that was the only phrase that she could come up with.
They took her to the police department.
“You were totally intoxicated... full of narcotics in that party... I was the guy who saved you...”
“Hey, wait!” Christie disengaged her arm from his hand. “I am still trying to make sense from the first phrase that you spelled out...I intoxicated? Were you the tall long haired guy making a mouth-to-mouth procedure... the one who saved me?” Her thoughts were running as fast as a thunder in her head.
“So we've been tailing me...” The detective comically shook the long haired wig that he managed to have tailored like a tail as he kept it tucked inside his pants behind him. He touched his chest mimicking a surprise. “I'm feeling a little busted now.” And she didn´t even notice his prank. She was still trying to keep up not to lose her train of thoughts.
“What do you mean by that? I didn’t take any drug...”
“Someone gave you a white powder and you sniffed it in almost to a fatal collapse. Only if I didn't sniff you out on time...”
Mysterious Murder of Marilyn Monroe Page 11