A Charlebois, originally the Chartremagne family, of Irish-Celtic lore by noble legend, actually descended from the thieves of Greece among the advisors of Alexander, have a concept called a ‘Golem’, their contract and the related payment. We can see these figures, throughout history, related in a linked historical event and artistic contribution, a game stealing the soul of the figure featured and ensuring its usage by the deliberate line of the Chartremagne family, that of Mars, the anti-leadership assassins and contractors. Union scabs, maybe, but superb docksmen.
Mars: The empty hand cane with the raised right elbow, to take the counter-form, that of the weakest of the father’s of the childhood sparring partner, and develop it into a fusion form with both the counter and the superlative available, for a divinity, perfect in hand to hand, particularly with blade. When combined with the information warfare form, it is the most deadly form of violence within the discipline and its related military academic.
Jesus: The concept of the weapon’s proper term among the individuals an undercover mercenary gendarme is planted with, the street terminology granted by supporting powers placing against the ‘uprising’, the insurgency, the localized term used by those oppressed prior to label applied, and the personal term used by each undercover for identification. This is the sting of the blade of the enemy, applied to self, in legend, until come to trial, with the traitor hidden, actually the weapon used in spar – the identification of the traitor at trial for using the street term of the now revealed traitor, absent of course having weapons stripped upon ramified.
Hex: The concept of the Trappist Abbot’s wandering form, seen as a Daemonologie, the gunslinger. An individual who practices martial arts and a fusion self form, as if ideal in poverty, but with the architected form of the wealth self man. This is the Del Nortes Diables, the cruficix above the altar of a Church, commissioned by Morisco Moors and built by three Converso Jews, three blind mice, a sculptor, an architect, and a carpenter. The exact formula is a contra-lateral, taking the opposite of the intended effect, outside the placement, and putting it inside the terminology, then passing it to a loyalist within a camp of the foe, so they may be executed. That way, instead of merely the poor dying at trial, the rich will also die, for invoking the traditions of law in architected form, unable to escape a system they have copied through invocation of self upon testament, instead of upon actual grief of good will. Leave the better letters, to the hexslinger, the proper witch; a Trapper.
Inspector: The concept of defeating an insurgency of the priesthood against a parliament of peers through taking of law upon convex of state. Law, is the concept of an idle kin, a man or woman separate from their brethren, having studied a system to survive, then giving it to others instead of self, losing when appropriate for the good of others, victorious when appropriate for the good of client. When both, a precedent, when neither, a plea, and when a unique situation, a scandal, the term of invocation of grief upon state to give the wronged client a second life, wherein the state must suffer punishment for creating their own concave. When religion, the secondary finance of a citadel upon war, is involved, the convex enters, and a predication by proof of production of consequence in condition. This was the case of a Catholic priest, set up to perform the Guy Fawkes Day plot, by ramified term of suggestion to the King, and then neglect to mention the consequence of purchase of arms to the Catholic priest in question. The gift, was Sherlock Holmes, a Scots hunter, a man who hunts a dullard with a caved in skull too dim to realize the problem in proving a fact by creating it, therefore making a make believe world for himself, the game theory easily Scottish once established by playing neglect, the Scot’s strength, allowing the rest to finish itself and the Scottish hand to disappear as having perjured, leaving it to history and a foolish riot; a whiskered mask, the symbol of a pedophile.
The Antichrist: The art and the flair, Friedrich Nietzsche sought to escape the life of a doctor, a bonesaw, and a mortician spy. At the expense of 300 debts of high German cavalry officer amputated, the beer money for a week offered from the state, Karl Marx’s debt was paid, and he posed as a false Jew, a convert of course, raising children and seeing whores. In the libraries, with his wife and children on the side, he ate shrimp only in one place, a little metal tin with icewater and rubber underwear from his little Jewish daughters, in the library, producing art as scholarship, taking the Viet-so paddy plantation, and putting it inside the Nestorian commune community, for political economy’s Das Kapital, coming up with the work that would free prosthetics doctors and priests, should they choose it, to become sexual psychiatrists, Nietzscheans. Friedrich Nietzsche became one of the greatest debonair gentlemen of the dominatrix guilds, producing the homophobic solution to transgenderism among pagans and witches, with Mortal Sins cleansed by love made to a woman on top, and her power over a man on bottom over courts of law, not his wallet. The gift was the Antichrist, to that private author, that Charlebois somewhere, that paid of Karl Marx’s tab, a German officer of course in the cavalry.
Superman: The concept of a man that has peaked early in his time, destroyed by a younger woman, a whore, his first foe to defeat, by an act of art and criminal fraud. The common flaw of a man trapped in the life of a teacher by such a skank, the term for a woman with a knife from the slums of life that needs to suck on opium to move her bowels, from a bank man’s purse, her moneygrubbing father’s crutch at watching her fingerbang in an alley. Rather remain alone and useless, in a school, a task meant for women, he can come into the life of the false journalist, producing his opinion on news heard on radio or in paper or in city, as his conversation, with the actual work in criminal prints fraud, with all the rogues he can imagine of Superman his own business strategies and practices and prints, one day becoming an author, and marrying a female study, his Lois and his Mercy, that younger woman that is true, that could slip a shank paddy in the back of a bank whore and watch her kick out on the ground like a sack of heroin needle in a marionette doll. Based on the man that lived it, and wrote it, Simon and Schuster, the two pranksters that shared Superman together, each contributing their criminal fraud schemes, with the help of the principal that discovered and printed them, the married partner of one of their friends. Younger, of course, and in private. Are you an agent of the mail service, sir? Those were the days.
Batman: Adolf Hitler himself, the Dortmouse, a German spy specializing in paintings and works of art and science, capable of training any sparring partner with a painting. Joi-Louis Charlebois, grandfather of the famed Malcolm X, a soda confections shipping clerk for the Chicago undercover cop ball club, the Memphis Blues, negro ballplayers with Spaniard barristers and Italian Church socialite parties, placed Hitler and the other dortmouses in a bind. Hitler escaped, as the Joker, the cat’s eye smile for the Jewess, the deck rigger, the famous anti-Semite, but any others who read Mein Kempf, to become the ultimate Dortmouse, Hitler’s finest work, then read Batman, would convert to Judaism and become a comic or propaganda author, cleansing the social issue of whomever got them to read Mein Kempf, as a writer, author, filmographer, or auteur, an artist splendor. They would become Batman, Hitler, until such a time came, that the cause itself, not the man and the Holocaust that could’ve been prevented, would disappear, and the use for art, as war, would simply not exist. Then, we’d be left, without God, merely a knife, and the Republic, of Plato, would be gone, Socrates’ Apology merely a shout in the night at the face of a monster, a teacher that taught you their reasons of work; a pederast turning you homosexual, for printing a book of reasons. A History, falsely written, for it was yours, not theirs.
007: Does the Irish Republican Army, need to kill today? Ian Fleming thought so, and he hired them to right the wrongs of war. Ian Fleming lived through the worst period in British history, and he never served a whit of real combat, but held off the entire front of Spain with a sporting rumor of jest, that of an ornithologist that believed in evolution threatening Franco, to keep him out of the war. It was sports, not games or bets or gambling, that caused the war, the simple act of playing a game of soccer or baseball or a competition or a gladiator game or a bread and circus. The Irish mind was simple, to outlaw sporting events, and make them an actual field battle play for one maneuver, that would lead to a military action in a riot’s form, that would strip the entire ability for an area to make war. Sports, competition, and exposition, were the enemy of peace. Ian Fleming hired a man to make a simple White’s bet, for the Queen, to bomb a bus full of British wrestlers, before a league could open, in Scotland and England, thus destroying peace for another generation by introducing a new sport. A simple recipe, smash mouth, was introduced, a pie in a tin, that all the black wrestlers ate full faced, causing asshole skank riots, where the local English soldiers killed the wrestlers, white and black and jewish and such other colored, spanish and moors alike. Bodies, horrid, writhing, wringing bodies, dead by the hand of something called ‘OCTOPUS’, actually a lover’s date recipe in German culture, of a banker’s foodstuff, from an anti-German organization, the Irish Republican Army. The suit was cleared away, and the grocery pie, became a mainstay of the grocery aisle ever since, turning black kids, into assholes, dooming anyone that practiced wrestling to fight a black asshole, and everyone would die, the black asshole and the white nigger. Ian Fleming, became a knight, and the rest, is 007, the Stuff of Legend. Easy as pie.
Spider-Man: War is the right thing to do. Unless the war is wrong. What if you could win the war, singlehandedly, as a leader, but the war was wrong? Your manhood, your legacy in history, demands you win this war. Sacrifice, he says, but to whom? You, the American soldier? You, Hunter S. Thompson, cursing a man for losing? You, that young kid somewhere, writing in Rolling Stones Magazine, writing Rolling Stones lyrics, some poor alcoholic wandering around Los Angeles and San Francisco, commissioned by the Air Force, to write every operative of Richard Nixon, into foes of a wall crawling menace, a hidden communist? Spider-Man, is Richard Nixon, and it put journalist photography in the war, and created the Air Force Narc, the kid from an ROTC college that covered the war for a woman, not to win it, but because she told him the war wasn’t the right thing to do. The Vietnam War ended, and Steve Charlebois, the author’s godfather, went home without any medals, and a bunked up liver, but the story of a lifetime. He put an LAPD rapist, named Charlie Manson, in prison, for killing a rapist whore bitch and her kid, a future US President, along with a pedophile father and director going down on the charge in public. Thanks, Steve, and cheers. You can’t drink, but I’m sure we all loved your lyrics in five Rolling Stones songs. Check out Calabrese, he does the contracting work, it’s a fine band.
“Gimme Shelter” – Steve’s song.
“Brown Sugar” – Every Charlebois lady.
“2000 Light Years From Home” – The O’Neill women’s song.
“Paint it Black” – Death in its raw form, killing a man and seeing him die, the moment you die too. Evil. Alcoholism.
“Sympathy for the Devil” – The Charlebois themesong.