TINKERING WITH THE MIND
It was 1977. I was a 19-year-old mind-controlled programmed slave in the CIA/DIA Project Monarch Freedom Train operation, literally owned by U.S. Senate Majority Leader Robert C. Byrd, who was then a 20-year incumbent and on the Senate Appropriations Committee, As Byrd's "own little witch" (sex slave), I would also become involved in covert government operations. I now understand that this required more memory compartments/personalities than I had developed. Hence one more reason for the mind shattering occult ritual, and my «predestined» marriage to Cox. In typical Project Monarch structure, Byrd was my «owner» and in control of my life, while Cox became my primary «handler» and followed Byrd's orders to ensure that I was at key locations and events at appointed times and to maintain me under mind control. Cox reportedly was not paid cash for his role like my father was. Instead, he either followed orders or would be prosecuted for distributing drugs and being the occult serial killer that he was and is to date. Cox's primary role was to shatter my mind further through repealed occult trauma as well as father my daughter, Kelly, to be raised in the genetic mind-control studies of Project Monarch.
I moved to Nashville, as ordered, to marry Cox, who took me to the backwoods of his hometown swamp in Chatham, Louisiana for months at a time for occult traumatization. Cox had been brought up in witchcraft by his mother, and admittedly longed for her sexually and ritually. Together they subjected me to their beliefs, which included what equates to a weakened version of mind control used by witches for centuries, anchored in superstition rather than scientific fact. These superstitious beliefs seemingly conflicted with Cox's mercenary training to the point that his killing raged out of control. For example, Cox would murder a human through repeated stabbing with a knife, believing that the "departing spirit" and splattered blood gave him power to control my mind. In truth, it was my aversion and subsequent traumatization by the event that caused me to dissociate and trance, leaving my subconscious open to his suggestions and those of others. During the three years I was with Cox, he ritually impregnated and aborted me six times, consuming several of his own offspring and preserving the others shaped in ceramic for sale in his interstate occult body parts business. Cox's M.O. for murdering always included removing the hands with a machete, as the "Hands of Glory" he kiln-dried in the ceramic shop of his and his mother's house were in demand and thus distributed throughout the occult underground supply network. Cox's protected cocaine and body parts distribution routes included Texas, Arkansas, Mississippi, Tennessee, and Florida.
Cox and I traveled to Florida on several occasions as his mother's parents lived in Mims, which is only minutes away from the NASA Kennedy Space Center in Titusville. Cox, like my father, made sure I was there for mind-control testing and programming as ordered. Cox perceived me as a "Chosen One," and often used this CIA Project Monarch term when referring to me and for proudly «justifying» his leaving me at the NASA installation.
Cox had a variety of belief systems that he applied to various situations, all of which were superstition based. He believed in spirit communication or "divine guidance" through nature spirits and demons, that Satan must be appeased, that Jesus is an alien, that the Bermuda Triangle is a door to another dimension, and that the end of the world is near. He 'religiously' carried a Bible with him everywhere-including to occult rituals-quoting scripture like a theologian. He justified "eating the body and drinking the blood," "being washed in the blood," and even "murdering children" according to the story of God testing Abraham by ordering him to murder his son, Isaac, by knife on an alter. Jim Jones was one of Cox's idols, as was Charlie Manson, and he touted the Jonestown massacre as a prime example of the "power of (CIA) mind control".
Cox demanded I become a Mormon in the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints. This was to «prove» that Satan was everywhere-particularly in the Monroe, Louisiana Mormon church where he led occult ritual, and in the Hendersonville, Tennessee church that the so-called Freedom Train rolled throughCox's determination to instill his religious superstitious beliefs in me was side-tracked by J. Bennett Johnston in his Shreveport, Louisiana office early in the summer of 1978.
Cox's mother, Mary, had driven us to Johnston's office near Barksdale Air Force Base as ordered. As she knocked boldly on the obscure metal door, I read the attached metal sign: "General Dynamics Research and Development". A smaller sign near the doorknob read; "Unlawful to enter premises without prior authorization. All violators will be prosecuted under penalty of federal law."
Johnston, wearing a light blue, leisure suit and smelling strongly of body odor, opened the door. "Well, hey Senator," Mary drawled in her backwoods Louisiana dialect, "I brought the children to see you like you said."
Johnston looked at her with annoyed disgust. "I see that," he said matter-of-factly. He then proceeded to instruct Mary to wait outside a moment while he talked with Cox, then to take him on to her home in Monroe where I could be picked up at the Airport a few days later.
Cox and I were ushered into Johnston's barren military-style furnished office. Several Presidential and military photographs hung on the wall and served as the only decor. Johnston sat on the front of his military issue desk and talked to Cox's subconscious mind using cryptic, hypnotic Disney Peter Pan theme language, as he apparently had done in the past when Cox had a mind left to control.
"As long as your ticker's running, chat crock-a-dial you've been feeding over the years will be running right behind you. (Peter) Pan knew how to stay a step ahead of the game and stop the inevitable process of becoming gator bait himself by offering to give him a hand now and then."
Cox dismembered his murdered victims and distributed the "Hands of Glory" to fellow Satanists and occult traumatized/ Peter Pan theme programmed mercenaries, while feeding "left over" body parts to an alligator that lived in the Swamp behind his house. This was indicative of Cox's twisted, murderous response to Johnston's traumatic Peter Pan theme programming… a programming that I was about to experience "first hand". Cryptically instructing Cox on Senator Byrd's orders, Johnston continued, "I've got to hand it to that Pan. His livelihood of creating hookers for the Captain (Hook) was indeed lucrative. And speaking of creating hookers, a little Byrd told me that a shift from routine hand-ling to a theme that is alien could prove lucrative to you." Revealing his intent to ensure my military mind-control programming, Johnston told him, "I'll lay a little groundwork and set the patten for countdown. Then I'll send her out to launch for you, and it's your job to man the craft from there…"
Cox was ordered out of Johnston's office, and he turned his full attention to me. When alone with the Senator, Johnston manipulated my mind, and ultimately my beliefs and perceptions, for future programming. He referred to a picture of himself shaking hands with unknown Navy brass as he dramatically told me, "I was there that fateful day in 1943 when a hole was ripped in the fabric of time through what later became known as the Philadelphia Experiment. All those fine boys vanished along with their ship in a bizarre twist of events that parallels the Atlantis disappearances. A vortex was created in an effort to slip dimensions and become invisible to the enemy. It was a success beyond the highest expectations and launched us all into universal travel. It is no wonder at all that we have had a man on the moon. Traveling to distant planets and galaxies is Mickey Mouse stuff in comparison to the high tech wizardry of trans-dimensional travel. Trans-dimensional travel circumvents all measures of time, including distance and speed. When the fabric of time was torn, we opened ourselves up to intergalactic travel — both in and out of this dimension — and in and out of the future, as well as the past. We can alter the course of history by traveling back in time to alter events, or we can blast off into the future and gain wisdom and knowledge of events yet to come. We can control the future by controlling the past. At present, this is a relatively easy task according to the theory of relativity and abilities gained through the Philadelphia Experiment. I came back an ET (extraterrestrial) myself. And our ship relumed to this Earth as a spaceship.3 I gained the keys to the universe on that fateful day, and I carry them with me now, sharing only a Key or two at a time with those who are Chosen. You are a Chosen One (Johnston was deliberately interfacing with Rite to Remain Silent conditioning), and therefore must learn the ins and outs of interplanetary travel. Your mission is trans-dimensional. You can span infinite dimensions by learning from me. Take it from me, you're going places, kid. And I'll teach you to get there by riding the light. I'll teach you the groundwork, and you do the light work. The key to the universe lies in the speed of light. The only way to travel is by beam of light. You will learn to go to the light… Your mission is to learn how to Tinker with time. I'm going to take you on that journey myself. Come with me now. It's time we were leaving this plane and boarding another."
Johnston took me the short distance from his General Dynamics Corporation provided office to the Barksdale Air Force Base airfield. He was apparently well known at Barksdale, and a small cargo plane was ready to lake us to our destination-Tinker Air Force Base in Oklahoma.
Once we were airborne, Johnston accessed my sex programmed personalities for his own aggressive perversion. His use of cocaine further accentuated his hyperactive demeanor as he brutally slung me around the back of the small plane while he had sex with me. At one point the pilot hollered from the cockpit "Hey, you're creating turbulence. Knock it off, will you."
Johnston laughed and responded, "What the fuck do you think I'm doing?" By the time we arrived at Tinker A.F.B., my arm was beginning to show a dark bruise that extended from my shoulder to my elbow. A uniformed man greeted us as we walked across the airfield. Johnston apparently knew him quite well, and referred to him as "Cap'n" (which tied in with the Peter Pan theme programming I was about to endure). When he noticed my arm, Cap'n reminded him, "Hey, that's not necessary, you know."
"Yeah, I know. Take care of it for me. Here…" Johnston took the straps of my tank top and pulled them down around my forearms (which still could not cover the bruise.) "There, that just about covers it." He smiled and continued, "You look like a Southern belle that way rather than a damned ol' Yankee anyway,"
Cap'n said, "She'll be a Tinker-belle by the time we're through here today." Then, referring to Johnston's primary purpose in actually escorting me to Tinker he asked, "How are your South American operations progressing?"
"I've got to talk to you about that," Johnston answered. The two talked as though they had worked in tandem on given mercenary operations/assignments in the past. "I may need a few of your boys to back me on something."
"Back you, or cover you?" the Cap'n retorted.
Johnston laughed, "Both if you'll front the operation."
Johnston had previously «justified» his use of Tinker (Peter Pan theme) programmed niind-controlled mercenaries to me by saying, "Mercenaries are missionaries who follow their inner guidance system rather than their old Uncle Sam. Politics hinder the route to freedom, and these boys slip under international laws, undetected, to carry out the work the military boys only dream of doing.."
I was escorted away from the two by a nurse, who purported to be tending to my injured arm. In fact, she was preparing me for the "Tinker-belle cage" — an electrified metal cage with an electrified grid bottom. Locked inside, I was subjected to high, direct current voltage to compartmentalize the Peter Pan theme mind-control programming that I endured. Like Peter Pan's Tinkerbelle, I learned to "ride the light" as a means of travel. Additionally, my instilled Tinker-belle theme mind manipulation included a sense of Never-Never-land timelessness that was rooted to my «natural» inability to comprehend time due to my MPD/D1D.
Back in Louisiana, Cox and I shared a subconscious understanding of Peter Pan themes and "riding the light". The difference between us was that Cox consciously activated Tinker Air Force Base programming within Johnston's band of mercenaries, while my trance was perpetual whereby I could "Never-Never-Land."
I was with Cox on numerous occasions when he was running guns and/or cocaine, and activating specified mercenaries for operations as instructed by Johnston, In the course of these travels I saw numerous underground arsenals and stockpiled weapons that were known to Senator Johnston, but were not on. military installations. I was also privy to government sanctioned cocaine operations.
On one such cocaine run in 1979, I traveled with Cox to a remote area in the Ouachita National Forest near Hot Springs, Arkansas to "watch for fairies like Tinker-belle" and "ride the light".
We sat in the brush near a railroad track until we saw a light approaching from the Eastern sky. At the time I thought I would be "riding the light" as I was led to believe, but in retrospect I recall my personalities being deliberately switched and a helicopter landing in a nearby clearing. Cox and I unloaded approximately 200–400 pounds of cocaine from the van he had driven, and stacked it in the helicopter. We were then flown to a small airport that appeared to be no more than a dark, fenced-in clearing where I saw a row of metal buildings that looked like mini-warehouses. While the cocaine was unloaded into a warehouse, Cox and I were taken by car to a nearby grey stone hold. The driver led us upstairs, and knocked on the Penthouse door.
"Yeah," a voice answered,
"I got a Tinker-belle and a Peter Pan here to see you, Sir," the driver called.
"Send 'em in." Cox and I walked into the suite where then Governor of Arkansas Bill Clint cm was shuffling through a briefcase. Clinton and Johnston were cohorts in illegal covert operations that emanated from Tinker Air Force Base.
Cox spoke up. "Senator Johnston said a little (Senator) Byrd told him that you are one of Ours."
"So what does that make you?" Clinton asked impatiently.
"A Chosen One," Cox nodded his head toward me.
Clinton asked me, "Chosen by whose order?"
I cryptically delivered the proper coded response, which cued Clinton to proceed. "What brings you here?" he demanded.
Interpreting his question literally as is «natural» for programmed MPD/DID slaves, I answered, "I rode the light, Sir."
Clinton rolled his eyes, and looked back over at Cox who was nervously rocking back and forth as he so often did. "State your business," Clinton ordered.
"Uh," Cox cleared his throat, habitually picked his nose as he rocked back and forth and said, "Well, uh…" Clinton looked disgusted.
"Get him the fuck out of here!" he ordered the driver. Cox was immediately escorted out,
"That's better," Clinton said. Using standard Jesuit hand signals and cryptic language, he triggered/switched me and accessed a previously programmed message.
"Senator Johnston sent me to give this to you." I handed Clinton a thin, large brown envelope, "And I have some fairy dust guaranteed to make you fly high." I took the personal stash of cocaine that Johnston was sharing with Clinton from my pocket.
Clinton snorted two lines of the coke immediately. He smiled. "Tell Ben I'm impressed." He showed me to the door.
The severe torture and mind-control programming that I was enduring at Tinker Air Force Base had prepared me for this simple «mission» and many others. Although Cox's out-of-control occult serial killings polyfragmented my multiple personalities as intended by Byrd, it was Johnston's alien theme mind conditioning that locked me into absolute robotic helplessness. After all, had I been capable of rationalizing, I would nave found that the thought of interdimensional travel and aliens was no more bizarre to me that Cox's murderous actions or having found out pornography king Jerry Ford held the office of President.
When my daughter, Kelly, was born in February of 1980, Cox's former employer. Jack Greene, traveled to Louisiana to meet with me in keeping with his role as Nashville's CIA Freedom Train «conductor». He took me aside and explained that since Cox had fulfilled his (genetic) role in producing Kelly, Senator Byrd had ordered me back to Nashville. Greene talked at length, hypnotically reviving my original programmed «obsession» to move to Nashville. He told me that Cox had proven too insane to follow orders anymore as was evidenced by my extremely poor health (much of my hair bad fallen out) and by the stench of decaying human flesh that permeated the area surrounding his remote Chatham, Louisiana swamp house.
If I had had a mind of my own, I know in retrospect I would have felt as though I had been released from a prison dungeon. But I could only respond by telling Cox matter-of-factly that I had received "divine guidance" to move to Nashville at once to a home that awaited me. Cox had no choice but to comply with Byrd's orders. Kelly and I moved to Tennessee when she was only three months old, and Cox temporarily moved with us in order to apprise our new handler of the latest details of our victimization. Within weeks, Cox moved back to Chatham, Louisiana to live with his mother (even to this date). Now he reportedly raises goats for sacrifice and carries on his occult serial killing activities unhindered due to his immunity from prosecution because of whom and what he and his mother know.