A Prison Officer’s Note (Kick a Shitcan Down Shitcan Ally)

Struggles of Our Times (A Book):

My father, doesn’t always but often does know Jewish culture kindly.

An Iranian doctor, mistaken as Jewish by his own hands of tailor, came to me, when I was three. He had been educated in the Orthodoxy, and was a man of the South in his mind, having heard these slave bearing times they fought through were with the ways of Aisha, the woman who would marry a great prince of Ethiopia, and bare harems of children for her, serving her in any way, of black sidling tidance.

This doctor, when I was three, severed my nonson’s boil, and it was reattached by my aunt, an Army doctor, who bevel-bashed him away, an Army term for a stigeritsus jama, a perfect martial arts through to the ground.

It ended her career, because the very next day, the Berlin Wall fell.

I grew, watched by this secret man, since 1989, January 13th, a bleak day, perhaps a Friday, but I never can remember much about that strange old crone, the scarecrow, the one the Jews claim me a Batman for facing, and my denial of their merrimanship, for they seek to write a story, about my severed and mutilated and reattached penis. That is no story for a child.

And then I was sold, by a Muslim man of white blood, a blue eyed devil they call him, a slave owner from North Ireland claiming Scottish kingdom, yet an exchequer for a town of bigots turned German by a little weak fobble short dictator burger salesman. He sought the swinen cow of a Gypsy, but only found her brother, hindled down in a hospital the Klansmen from the South, the Pennsylvanian police, had driven up to abduct him from his home to deliver to a hospital on a hill, where my mother was killed for the atrocity, the local authorities blaming her, instead of the Freemason’s namesake, the bank tilly represented by a demure goatlet of hatred, and his famous sister resembling a baker’s aunt, Hitler’s persona himself.

And so I came to fight, stolen and robbed by German spies, heroin dealers and police, after they had conquered the internet, with United Nations and Garibaldi flunkies out of the Mossad listening to Michael Moore and Rage Against the Machine, the INTERPOL activists with the Mossad believing George W. Bush a German, for his name, and the Germans hating him, for using French economics, their victor in the World Wars.

And then it came to pass, that I snitched them out, to the FBI, so the little German scat eater, could have a child, with his devil’s wick wife, and then could buy his black child a puppy, and have the same cycle repeat, of animal molestation, this time for a Rabbi with a navel’s hole in his heart, HIV, a secret ally to money and power, instead of truth, that of a blood-drenched fist.

That of the Prince of Aragorn’s line, Zachary Savell.

The Moor, the Highgate.

Published by cheater120

Consider me an expert in information munitions. I practice Zazen meditation, Yakuza Trappist form (a Yakuza, games cheat, and Trappist, a counter-agent), as a Bonafuda, a mercantile salesmen of information through philosophy, literature, fiction, and academics, distributed as munitions technique deployed for the purpose apparent to you, unless of course you have violated the ethics of my piece, in which case you will be trapped inside a theft of the piece and an action within the boundaries of the violation you have committed in Benedictine culture, the Jewish affiliate within Catholic culture. Buyer beware, and these poems, are free.

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