Dimensions of Hell - Chapter 11

The Fallen Angel?

Electroshock, entities and the psychiatric Link to others not identified as human, including mind control techniques perfected by Kuszman, who is Defense Intelligence and CIA. You remember the greats of yesteryear; well, he was that guy’s protégé.

It was ally Emily who let me out, who apologized, and who told me to leave the hospital while I had a chance to escape.  She did not know why I could not escape, as there were developments in many aspects of this situation that she would not understand even if I tried to explain.  Suffice to say I liked her.  She was loyal.  I was always curious as to why she would spend so much time with her nurses uniform, her look.  She was not pretty in the broad sense of the word but beautiful as a child is beautiful.  She did not know where my wife was, only that she was not at home.  They lied about her because this is some kind of Op, I was finally concluding. It’s organized and I am targeted because they want something from me that fits into their demented world view.

She was gone most likely to the safehouse in Arizona (we used this when we were rescuing women and children from trafficking and brothels), or to Sheila Berg’s fortified house near Taos.  The worry was sickening.  But I had to solve this perplexing situation, that of otherworldly beings, some of God, some from the other side—prurient evil—some from their own side, and then creatures that seemed to have no other purpose other than to disturb and devastate.  Such as the snake with the human face, kind of like the face of the school bully from 1965.  And a flattop.  Lily white skin—Teddy Swerling. Never forgot how he had been put up to it to drown me at swimming day camp, his curled lips framing a kind of wicked insider smile as he held me under until I scratched the skin off of him.  Until I bit him.  And why you may ask was he “put up to it,” especially if he was an older kid.  Because I could see what this private school in Los Angeles was all about.  Nothing secret about the occultic rituals held in various houses wherein sex rituals (oh, that’s everyone, sorry) were held in the gym.  It was all for a purpose though, and that was to form a winning basketball team (at least this was the end goal).  Strange how it was a man and wife team who coached and taught history that had been the wonderful wizards of success.  Of winning.

Sexual assault (my take on it) was mainly used to traumatize and to create a form of DID (dissociative identity disorder), or so they called it, and then lodge the basketball entity (a collective entity, possessing many at once) within each tepid yet obedient vessel, and for a single A school (the Del Monte Prep School) the team was incredible.  25 and O—i.e., zero.  I saw one of their rituals; I was fascinated as Coach Madling was lunging into this unsuspecting guy named Charles in the coaches office no less, poor Chucky bent over the table and ol’ Madling slamming away—Chucky the Lightning, he was called, or used to be called— a would be guard, and now with the wife joining in, really yelling at him as if he was doing layups, telling him to “take it,” Come on!  You can do it, Chuckster!”   

It was classic programming.  He, or they, actually,  programmed Chucky to win.

Seriously, coaching group sodomy and then with candles lit and incantations chanted by a choir of female celebrants, the slaying of animals, and through ancient guttural Latin words little Charles became fierce, no longer the freckled frail Chucky to be pushed around, but born anew as a real competitor.  And nobody gave him shit in school except behind his back when they said his secret was being fucked in the ass by Coach Madling.  I was upset by what I saw and then told I had better learn to play ball or I was out.  Or worse. 

They would say, “How the fuck did you figure it all out? This is a secret and those who spill wind up dead. If you’re in the club of course.”

Well I’m not in your fucking death club, loser, I was thinking. Coach Madling (his name suits him) really was all about athletes emulating their heroes, and for generations all the greats had to bend over.

It was then that big fat Teddy tried to drown me and I was told that it was a warning.  I told Coach Madling I wouldn’t tell anyone.  And he said he needed to fuck me in the ass and videotape it, or some alternative to this.  Maybe a blow job.  As long as there is at least a Polaroid record so that I could be trusted. But it had to be my own free will, and he was not allowed to force it, or to rape us.   I only understood that later in life when I read the Bible.  If you can’t get power directly from the Source, God, then you have to derive power through rituals.  And it never lasts, obviously.  Inferior, but they don’t care, they want pleasure and no pain, even for 2 minutes.  Besides, if you’re not endued with the power of an indwelling, read that talented, demon, your basketball skills won’t improve anyway.  Tragic to get fucked in the ass for nothing.   We all experimented around with sex and masturbation and all that as pubescent boys, but there was this spiritual line I think that kept us from going Full Chucky.   I suppose one could call it a lack of ambition.  It never takes place in a vacuum, but as I knew full well, in another dimension surrounded by the hosts of Hell.

Honestly, before I was gaslit and set up for suicide as a troubled child, I did agree.  When I was a child I let them use me. And I called ‘em as I saw ‘em.  Could not fight back. But my tolerance had turned to hatred and I guess this motivated me to save kids from trafficking predators later on.  We even had a firefight with one of the cartels in Yuma, Arizona, shot out a couple of abandoned store fronts; and it didn’t even make the evening news.  I have to thank the all-boys school that bred leaders in society to be God-fearing monogamous creatures by day and raging pedophile predators by night, reliving that high school victory again and again through their own children, and that’s the secret of high society, and it helps if you're an RH negative blood type. 

It's all about tracing the blood lineage.  I have AB-, and everybody that has that is a bad guy, working for the dark side, or so it would seem, including many (just think, the public knows nothing about this) US presidents. Blood type and blood lineage, which I don’t think I have since it’s earth-based, though I do have AB- blood, and I’m pretty fortunate to still be here, as AB- is a delicacy for vampires, as this is a coveted blood type, something they love to imbibe.  So, you want to stay clear of them late at night or when they are sporting a cadre of henchmen.  They’re easy to see though, but we are all responsible for our own security.     

The rage I felt must have translated as I remember beating this one trafficker and I just couldn’t stop punching his face.  They told me later he was in a coma and never quite recovered, as in he became feeble and shuffled when he walked; he was lucky he had a mother who loved him and cared for him.  He shouldn’t be hurting kids, as I was only an instrument of God’s will.  My victim had a step father that was generous and had a pension. I might have felt guilty but when it comes to them hurting the innocent I hand myself over to God—then transform into a warring angel, and I mean that mentally.  I forget who I am.  Forget my age.  Time slows. All I feel is rage, but it’s not personal.  Madness barely contained. 

So rumors went around that I’m not human. My trackers don't think so.  What does Kuszman think, or better, who does he work for?  Are both sides evil?  Both revel in death. 

And then I realize why God talks to me, and why I see very accurate realities, and pass through little portals into other realities which are more real or a cause for the sparse reality we all share.  But if they see you there, you're tracked. 

Now it’s time to get real!  I'm not going anywhere!  I'm literally In the Janitor’s Room.  I understand that Anne has been kidnapped, at least In the spirit and I wondered how long It would be before people became honest with me.  I peed in the towel bin.  Least I could do Is leave the proverbial scent, a basic marking of new territory gained.  After all, some of the trackers are literally animals.  Not sure of their nomenclature but are they chimeras?  Are they all hybrids?  I don't think so, as they are living in the ether, in another dimension, and not visible to most. 

If they don't help me now so help me I'll poop In the mop sink.  Fuck It, done.  I pulled my pants down easily and it was basically a lean over; I did not have to jump up and aim.  I just pushed my now cold butt cheeks over the basin, caressed the rim like a velvet glove and I let it go.  I had to.  I had no choice.  I’d already come a long way since the wheel chair and cane though!  Yes, I hoisted myself up and easily took a shit.  Felt real! Just like what this mission has become.  And I already mentioned that the outside world seemed strange.  No real citizens just a growing number of guards with machine guns outside the hospital, preparing for a terrorist attack no doubt (or that’s what people were talking about), though there were none in New Mexico.

At that moment I wondered about the homeless, so many living in the city arroyos and the Santa Fe River.  And then, during the plague, many in Albuquerque and Santa Fe, and everywhere, for that matter, just went absent.  Missing.  Gone.  Vanished, just like that, and the rumor was they were taken to shelters to be housed and fed, cared for and rehabilitated if necessary. I had my doubts. Oh, Lord, please protect them!  I would hate to even consider what's raging through my mind right now.  I used a fucking hard, almost stiff towel to wipe my ass, actually it was the corner of the towel that fit perfectly.  Eagle Scout.   Not going to happen.  Fear.  We can't do without these naughty words because of their honed skills in exploiting the English language.  They are perfect.  God is always Perfect.  I don't think he minds me saying fuck or any other expressive noun or adjective or adverb, so long as it is necessary.  The church goers would never say something like this but then again, most of my attackers come from the ranks of church slaves, who lie all day long but never say ‘fuck.’  At the same time there is a call to action.  And I will get to the bottom of this whole thing, an old geezer like me WILL FIGURE IT OUT, just like the slaughter of the Natives (not the priests) on the so-called Cross of the Martyrs Hill in Santa Fe.

Don’t expect applause or gratitude.  Society above all never wanted the truth.  Just ask Jesus. 

Then suddenly the LIGHTS crashed, and all was black—and no emergency lights.  What the fuck Is happening out there? 

The door slammed open and light cascaded in like shards of a kaleidoscope.  They rushed in.  I could see scampering of small people, and I thought they were robots, but upon closer inspection they were real midgets! 

Short people.  In overalls, no less.  Blue baseball caps, a real team here.  I was bent, twisted, chased to the floor, then lifted by 4 or 5 of them.  I was dizzy, and could not fight back, then I got the needle in the shoulder and went out.  Black.  Death?  Was this it? 

And so, the midgets carried me out.  Like a cadaver held aloft by child-size pall bearers.  I'm not light, but not heavy since having some problems a few years ago.  Mainly heart and lung congestion.  With weight loss everything went back to normal, so I tossed the meds, and side effects, which were terrible.  I did sustain a bit of nausea, and if I got hurt in any way, and bled, I had to go to the overrated ER to stop the bleeding and receive more prescriptions. 

I semi-awoke with a surging pain in my head.  I was on a table In the ECT Room, which was just down the hall from the seclusion room, that which had become my home.  Now I am aware of time—how much time had I lost?  I felt a strong urge to get out and protect my wife but I am under their control completely.  ZZZZZZZZZzzzzt!  Boom, surging up on the table and screaming for them to stop while doctors (I can't tell who they are) or nurses are holding my body down and I have some sort of tongue suppressor in my mouth.  I received another shot and passed out.  I don't know how often they did It but I was shown various placards of differing colors.  There were full dreams of me with a sniper rifle taking out some guy public speaking from the podium on the Santa Fe square.  AI?   Perhaps.   My perch was on the roof of the south side retail shops, under a small electric shack, , and I looked through the 4.5 x 14 Leupold 50mm Mark 4 M1 Mil Dotscope, the only scope that really helps my accuracy, and I pan over to find the head of the speaker at the podium.  And the speaker is me.  I'm in the cross hairs. 

Of course, I don’t pull the trigger! 

Then I see one Image after another of headshots, really like watermelons exploding—the kind of image the press never shows but ends up all over the Internet. 

And then I experienced another surge, this time I feel like blood is oozing out of my ears, and I am shown a picture of a man I recognize, or thought I did.  It's a black and white image, a closeup of a woman I just can't place for some reason.  It's someone you see on TV.  And as the TV Image widens it's easy to see it's a Commencement Ritual for a college.  And then it dissolves perfectly into some sort of meeting, like a stockholder's meeting.  And then I am seeing it's Madam President of the United States, a natural born totalitarian, who ultimately engaged in wars. It's was like a TV that kept changing channels so a million images of her flurrying, left to right, right to left, and even above the TV set dazzled me, and the TV set was a console kind, like in your parents’ living room when you watched the Kennedy Assassination over and over.  I remember. 

Big letters emerged and the following statements on a black screen.

IS IT WORTH IT?

This is followed by battalions of tanks up and down city streets and soldier’s marching.

WHO IS TO BLAME?

This is followed by ‘live’ video of riots and citizens hurling Molotov cocktails at police and church gatherings.

WILL YOU SUSTAIN IT?

I see President Katrina Hawkins’ head turn into a giant digital hydra (intermittent) hypnotizing the crowd, and terrorizing children.  She was wearing a red pants suit, and lots of jewelry.  And now I get to pull the program.

And then, as if a friendly reminder, but one suggesting pressure to do something, I am instructed to leave the rooftop hideout.  But the guy on the com would not answer my questions.  So I stayed. 

Can I fight back?

At this point, no. 

YOU ARE HEALED

Another video: at the beach with Anne, hand in hand, enjoying the sunset with our feet in the foamy water medium tide water. Lots of waves.

YOU MUST HAVE TALENT

I see playback body cam footage of raids into cartel territory, firefights, coming out of the hideout with children and women and guiding them to waiting ambulances.  Then images of killing traffickers and bodies lined up outside the hideout, which  I think was In the Sonoran desert south of Phoenix. 

GOD AWAITS YOU

This Is beyond the CIA or psychiatry, and now I'm thinking this could be spiritually plausible (I may be in a bed somewhere), but where are my angels?  Where Is my evidence?  The evil is all around me, and while it's true the president was the biggest war monger alive and a globalist authoritarian whose religion was peak Orwell, who had in her first six months registered all users of the Internet, and who is calling for food rationing and lockdowns, but that’s old news now.  My thoughts are with Anne and somehow, I feel like she is fine.  I know one thing about her—she can escape any situation.

And here, in the hospital, a witch’s coven is running the surgery bays and the hallways, and maybe even the other dimensions here of the dead and God's creatures, and the demonic as well.  It's a shit show to be sure and I damn well know I can see what they cannot see.  People hate rescuers of trafficking and the fact we are military based. But not official in any way. We don’t exist.

But I'm retired.  Is it the president's fault?  As far as I'm concerned, it’s beyond fault now but I don't know anymore.  Forces are pulling me apart just as I--

--SURGE AGAIN!  This time they're all laughing at me around the table.  It's not an ECT, they're pitching dreams into my head.  They're projecting Bosch Images on the walls and at the head of the table is none other than Dr. Kuszman.  He's smiling as they strip me of my clothing and rub all their disgusting hands over me. 

Give me control, David.  Give me control. 

"You people know nothing about medicine," I said, my eyes fluttering as I strained to see.   I tried to leap up and punch him, but they held me down.   

"Tell me, David.  What did you see?"

"The president, you know damn well."

"Raise your right arm.  You will feel no pain."

They took a scalpel and opened a cut from my wrist to my elbow.  They punched me in the face.  Someone like Pinhead (but not her) whipped my package with a short crop. 

I remained stoically still.  I felt nothing.  They sewed up my arm and iced my balls. 

"Sit up, David."

I sat up. 

"Lie down, David."

I laid back down. 

And Brian was there, laughing.  He must have been the liaison between my room in the hospital and Kuszman.  Emily was there too, and it looked like she was sad. 

"Welcome, David.  You survived. You're one of us now. Lots to do.”

A ritual?  I'm initiated?  Fuck.  But where Is God?  I can't feel him or see him.  I can't resist what they tell me to do because It's like this. They don't just let Kookman dictate to me—they constitute a strong force, a battle front, like all of them holding me down.  All who are linked own my mind now.  They carried a baby goat to the table I was strapped to and they cut its throat ear to ears and let It bleed all over me.  Then they licked up the blood off my carcass.  I felt nothing, no boner, not embarrassment in that way but soon we were all naked and they were going at it with one another making unearthly guttural sounds.  This is followed by an outer circle of creatures (half-snail-half man, that sort of thing).  They are not mingling with the precision team around the table.  So they are projections into this space-time clown show. 

Then like an earthquake the building shakes and all the participants are hurled into the wall and fall and begin to weep. 

"David, you must stop Satan!"  And Kuszman is indicating that he too can see the hooded Imp, and all the ghost like figures.  I see the midgets too floating by the ceiling but they are unable to move as the Imp and the old Ghost man seeming to have enough power to ward off the humans. 

"David, you can stop them from meddling here.  After all, you brought them here."

And I willed them all away. I could not help myself.  I wanted their help but I could not continue to receive It. 

In the hallway I can hear chanting.  "We are dead.  Help us, David."—repeated again and again.

It's subjective like a dream and then it isn't.  I must find Sarge, and I am so weak, and now feel ashamed and tears are running down my face.  "I'm sorry, God!  I'm so sorry!"  I'm sorry, I'm weeping and now thinking I'm one of them and my rare blood type proves It. The gifts I have prove It. Who knows how many were hard-inducted CIA. 

When God created man, Lucifer took one-third of the angels and launched a war that continues to this day, with man being the only thing the fallen angels need to destroy as vengeance against God, number one, then to establish Lucifer as God, and above the Most High, perhaps by destroying all forms made by the Creator and going digital (silly, been done before).  Humanity Is the key.  Always.  Get humans to annihilate one another, get humans to hate one another and blame everything on them rather than the root cause.  But who am I fooling?  If I wasn't rooted somehow in Satan the military would never have trained me, right?  I would never have been successful.  I would have struggled and expired relatively obscure, the everyman that failed.  God is perfect. 

But is He? 

I'm now seeing It differently, and although I don't know where I am, my mind is working and I'm thinking I'm half-fallen angel.  They want me to unleash fucking hell on earth.  I may kill Brian first.  I now have total permission to do anything I want to do, and that means settle old scores!  I'm reborn!  I am power!  No more being pushed around.  That little faggot fuck wants to make fun of me and and my dick, all the while wanting me to compromise myself and assume the position.  Well, my position, Brian, is this: I am your boss now.  Yeah, I'm taking your soul, you fucking traitor.  And I'm coming for you, Pindeja, you’re no blessing, Dr. Blessing. And the witchy capes and skinny little face that hasn't seen the sun in 200 years does not put fear even in a mouse!  I'm boss now.  I outrank you all.    

I'm floating at the window of my hospital as the sun drenches my naked body, which now seems to be a beautiful shape and sinewy muscles.  Nothing to laugh about I can assure you. 

I'm not going to face a tribunal.  I'm done.  I feel like I'm 35 years old.  So… where is my wife?

I get up and walk out into the hall, in the nude—au natural—and for the first time I’m damn proud of myself!  To them I've been here the whole time, probably. What does it matter?  I'm no stranger to layered worlds.  "You see now don’t you?” I asked, and they brought me a shitty robe. "No.  Give me the good robe.  And be quick about It,” I said.

So the little women run wildly around looking for a nice robe, like a Spa robe.  Yes. 

I got the gold treatment all right.  The robe was indeed like a fancy spa robe, and I got a double espresso and a cigar to have on the balcony in the abandoned hall downstairs. 

So, did anything happen? 

Dr. Blessing was all smiles and so was Emily. 

Dr. Kuszman sat me down in his office and then escorted me, locked me back in seclusion again, outside the nurses station.  You can’t do this to me, I was thinking loudly in my mind. 

His brow was beaded with sweat, and he seemed under stress. White shirt sleeves rolled up, tie loosened, and under some kind of trauma.

"This is just temporary," he said, answering my thoughts. 

Well, perhaps not. 

So, we had taken the elevator to the top floor, no transportation guy needed as I could walk fine, perfectly actually.  I was escorted by military types, two in front, two in back, and two at my side. A convoy. We got the psych ward and it was filled with pathetic, weak-minded—read that programmed—people.  You see, I've changed.  I have no patience or tolerance for these people.  The psych nurses bowed down to me.   A schizophrenic lad came up to me and started to prophesy.  He said, “David, you are like a god now.  You have to do your duty. You’re driving me to drink.”

"When I want your opinion, I’ll ask for it,” I quipped back. 

"You will complete the mission."

“OK, so you have a gift too, good.  Holster it, cowboy,” I snapped like the boss man I really am.  I don’t need to hear about missions from this guy.  Unless he’s undercover and then he’d have to tell me that.   

I did long to see the ghosts and travel to the ancient hallway.  I needed to see Sarge but I think he hates me. God hates me now.  I love me though.  Fuck everything and everyone that's in my way. I love God even when I feel abandoned.

Kuszman shows me a video of Anne.  I wasn’t ready for it.

She's gagged, a shotgun is resting against her head.  Others are in the room.  I start imagining killing Kuszman or causing his untimely death. I know what It means, no need to spell It out. They want a favor, a small favor, something terrestrial, as earth dwellers always seem to think in terms of minutes and seconds, while thinkers think about millennia, true minds ponder it all, little minds work on petty details.  I'd gladly do this errand in order to keep my wonderful prowess as a lion, and to whom no law really applies, unless I rebel on this one thing and one thing only. 

And I was growing more powerful.  I could move objects now with thought, a skill I actually did possess way back in the 90’s, beginning with the glass of water on my tray.  And by the way, these toilet heads are keeping me on that mattress on the floor in front of the Psych nurses station. If they pump drugs into me they'll be surprised that they have no longer have an effect.  Nothing can slow me down.  I learned to modify all brain states from yogis back in the 90's also in northern India, near Srinagar. I sat with Tibetan monks as well to control my heart rate.  I can always bring it down to 60 from any number within a matter of seconds. 

But rules are rules!  I will complete the task. 

Late that night,  I was surrounded by the floating midget hidden in a full length hoodie, the old man and Sarge. 

"David, God restored you, not them," Sarge said.  "You have a task to complete, for us—it requires your particular gift, your tools," the little floating figure magically communicated to me.  "If you want to live."

Who am I?  A fallen one or redeemed by God? 

I went with the psychic floating hoodie and Sarge down to the ER ambulance ramp and waited for the bus to arrive.  "You have keys to this place?"

"I do," Sarge said.  "Something you need to see, David."