Tuesday, December 01, 2009

The Move to North Carolina

It's been a while since I've posted anything about my situation because not much has changed, even though I moved from Indiana to North Carolina in May 2009. However, there have been a few developments that are worth discussing.

The situation at Irish Hills Apartments in South Bend, Ind., became intolerable for everyone involved, so my lease was not renewed after three years. I lived there from March 2006 to May 2009. All my neighbors were perps, so there was a constant barrage of door-slamming, trunk-slamming and other harassment strategies. Sometimes I would slam my front door in response, which apparently offended some of the perps involved, and I got in trouble with the apartment management for that. I had pretty much decided to move out at the end of May anyway, so I was more than happy to comply with management's request.

Last December, I drove through Western North Carolina on my way back home from a trip to Florida, and I really liked what I saw, so I decided to move there. I found a house up in the hills in a small community called Arden, just outside Asheville. It has several advantages over the situation I faced in South Bend.

For one thing, since I no longer live in an apartment complex, people can't slam their doors within a few feet of my home. Sometimes my next-door neighbors slam their car doors, but they're probably 50 yards or more from my front door, so it's not nearly as bad. Also, I have a nice view of the mountains from my back yard, and the winter is a lot milder down here. It snows only about 15 inches a year compared to 75 inches in South Bend, and it never gets down below zero, whereas that happens a lot in South Bend.

On the other hand, I live just a few miles from the airport now, and we get a lot of airplanes flying nearby. Often it will be timed to coincide with my daily walk to the mailbox at the end of my driveway. They'll try just about anything to intimidate me, but I just let it roll off my back like everything else.

Even though I don't have anyone living in extremely close proximity like before, the walls still make a lot of strange noises. I believe this is done with some type of acoustical weapon, but I'm not sure how it works. It could be fired by my neighbors, but I'm not sure. Usually when the walls start talking to me, it's timed to coincide with something I'm reading on the Internet or with a line in a movie I'm watching on TV.

Since they're contstantly trying to get me to kill myself, usually it involves a refernce to suicide or something to that effect. For example, a character in a movie might say something like, "I feel so lonely today," or something like that, and at the insant the sentence is completed, I'll hear the wall make a noise or someone will start a car or a lawn mower nearby within hearing range.

Being under surveillance 24 hours a day, 7 days a week, 52 weeks a year is really a drag, but the biggest problem I face is still finding food and drinks that are not contaminated. Almost everything I buy at the grocery store or in restaurants is spiked with some toxic chemical or another. Not only does the food taste bad, it often has some unpleasant side effects. I feel sharp pains in my abdomen sometimes, which could be the onset of cancer or some other dreadful disease.

The amazing thing to me is how many people are complicit in the poisoning of an innocent person. For example, I ordered a glass of water in a restaurant recently, and it tasted OK, so I drank about half of it. Then the waitress poured more water into the glass, even though I didn't request it, and I noticed it had a funny taste after that.

There must be hundreds and hundreds of employees at local grocery stores, drugstores and restaurants who are aware of what's going on, because the shelves have to be stocked with certain items when I'm headed to the store. And whoever controls the music in the store has to be ready to play certain songs when I walk in the door.

Often the songs will be really sad, depressing songs, played at an unusually high volume -- the type of music that's totally inappropriate for a public place. Or sometimes the song will contain a reference to some aspect of the mind-control project.

As I've explained in other posts on this blog, the intelligence agencies have had the capability to read people's minds at a distance for many, many years. Although I'm pretty sure I've had micochips implanted in my brain and in other places throughout my body, it might not be necessary to have an implant in order to have your mind read. I think the current satellite technology might be sufficient.

At any rate, one day when I was in Walgreens, they played "If You Could Read My Mind" by Gordon Lightfoot. Funny thing is, I always liked that song until all this happened to me. You know, the one that goes, "If you could read my mind, what a tale my thoughts would tell ... "

Now, it's possible that I just happened to be in there when that song was playing, but it's not very likely. One way I can tell is, the volume at which the music is playing is way louder than usual. Another giveaway is how often this happens. If it just happened once in a blue moon, that would be one thing, but when it happens all the time, it's pretty obvious something is up.

Another one of their favorite tricks is when I get in line to pay for my stuff, there will be two or three customers in front of me with extremely complicated and time-consuming transactions. This could involve an unusually large order, difficulties with payment, the need to send someone back to check on the price of an item or any number of bogus reasons.

What I'm saying is that the customers and the employees are in collusion with each other. It's something that is agreed on in advance and carried out at the appropriate time. Then, when I finally get to the front of the line, the employees always try to act so sincere when they apologize for the long wait.

This wouldn't be that big of a deal except that it happens so often. Usually I expect it to happen and just shrug it off, but occasionally I surprise myself and blurt out a comment that lets them know that I know it's all part of the game plan.

One time when that happened, I said to the clerk, "Don't worry, it happens all the time. Matter of fact I expect it. It's called state-sponsored harassment, and it's been happening to me for five years." They didn't like that.

I wonder if there are other people in the community who are subjected to the same treatment. It seems hard to believe they go to all that trouble just for me. But whether I'm the only one or there are many, many others, it all amounts to the same thing -- the arrival of fascism in the United States. One definition of fascism is the merger of the corporations with the state. And when retail establishments in the community are carrying out mind-control operations at the direction of the intelligence agencies, that's exactly what you have.

Doesn't anyone ever object to this sort of thing? Doesn't anyone ever say, "You want me to do what?" Apparently not, because it might cost them their job.

Another thing they don't like is when I play golf. Often, when I get to the course, it will be backed up with players on a weekday, even though I usually avoid playing courses that are busy. And the players in front of me will be especially slow, and they'll pretend to be looking for a lost ball or wahtever. Or when I take a backswing on a putt, I'll hear the crack of a drive from the adjacent tee. Little things designed to throw me off my game. Airplanes flying by overhead as I line up a putt, lawn mowers starting up, whatever.

Or shotguns going off. That was about the most extreme thing I've had to deal with in terms of noise. One day I must have heard 10 shotgun blasts from a nearby farm, each time as I was about to line up a putt or take a swing.

Rock bands get into the act, too. At the last live show I attended, the instant I walked in the door, the band started playing. Anything to let me know that I'm under surveillance and that everyone around me is participating.

Thursday, October 15, 2009

Mike Beal, 1957-2006: Another Victim of the Satanic Cult

Perhaps nothing better sums up the tragic life of my little brother, Mike Beal, than the fact that he died about one month before his two favorite teams, the Chicago Bears and the Indianapolis Colts, played in the Super Bowl in February 2007. That would have been an important event in his wretched life.

He loved the Bears because we grew up in Niles, Michigan, during the 1960s, when Gale Sayers and Dick Butkus played for the Bears, and all the Bears' games were on local television every Sunday. Our dad used to make us work in the yard on Sunday mornings, so there was even more reason to like the Bears, because we would always knock off in time to watch the Bears on TV.

After he moved to Indianapolis in the early 1980s, Mike adopted the Colts as a second favorite team, mainly because he could no longer get the Bears' games on TV with any degree of regularity. Instead, he was consigned to an inferior product -- indoor football on artificial turf under the Hoosier Dome.

In so many ways, Mike was absolutely my best friend in the whole world until I got "targeted," and then, like everyone else, he became my worst enemy. After I was forced out of my career by the illegal covert operation in August 2004, Mike invited me to live with him at his house in Indianapolis. Unfortunately, it was so he could subject me to a thousand different petty humiliations, not out of brotherly affection or any sense of duty.

Acting on his orders from the satanic cult we were born into -- the one that rules the world -- Mike tried to get me to commit suicide, but it didn't work, and he died in vain. He supposedly died of liver cancer, but I believe it was a condition deliberately caused by the CIA to silence him because he knew too much and was starting to talk too much. Or perhaps they wanted to remove one of  my last remaining sources of support, feeble though it was by then.

He was only 49 years old.

You see, Mike's so-called "girlfriend"  introduced him to Corona beer around 2004, and since he was an alcoholic, he drank himself to death in the last few years of his life. I don't know if he didn't realize he was drinking poison or if he just didn't care anymore. How would you feel if you were forced to drive your brother to suicide because you were a member of a multi-generational satanic cult, and your brother wasn't?

I know this is possible because my food and drinks have been contaminated by employees of grocery stores and restaurants for the past 10 years. In the fascist police state in which we live today, everybody just does whatever the CIA tells them to do and they don't even bother to ask themselves if it's right or wrong.

When the CIA wants to assassinate someone and make it look like natural causes, they place you under illegal surveillance and then notify the grocery stores and restaurants when you're on the way there. Employees then switch out some of your favorite products with contaminated ones.

I know those Coronas were contaminated because I drank a few of them myself before I realized what was happening. They didn't taste right, and now I recognize that same taste in the beer I buy at the grocery store. Needless to say, I pretty much had to give up drinking beer because of that.
At any rate, Mike was about two years younger than me, and like many brothers, we often fought when we were young, but when we moved to California in August 1970, we became the best of friends. We remained that way until 2004, when I was first "targeted" by the illegal covert operation that destroyed my life.

I'm not sure why Mike agreed to participate in the conspiracy to destroy my life, but I have a feeling he was blackmailed into it. Perhaps he was threatened that there would be dire consequences for his children if he didn't cooperate. At any rate, he made it clear to me in thousand different ways toward the end of his life whose side he was on.

Both my dad and Mike were alcoholics, and I think one reason why was that they couldn't live with the fact that they had betrayed me and sold me out to the CIA. I believe Mike was my "handler," which means his job was to pretend to be my friend while constantly informing on me and betraying me.

I think it's entirely possible that he knew he was being poisoned to death toward the end of his life, but that he willingly continued to drink himself to death to escape the horrible reality of the world in which he was forced to "live."

At one point during the time we lived together at his house in Indy, probably in 2005, I expressed to Mike that I believed in reincarnation. He told me that he hoped it wasn't true.

Could there be any more damning indictment of the "life" he was forced to live?

Mike was not the first person in my family to be murdered as a result of the mind-control project that ruined all our lives. My mother was murdered 15 years earlier.

You see, when I was working as an editor at the South Bend (Ind.) Tribune in 1991, I was presented with a rare opportunity to put my beliefs into action. Now I realize that it was all a set-up, but it was a golden opportunity just the same, and I seized it.

Back in 1974, during my sophomore year at the University of Michigan, I discovered that President Kennedy was assassinated by a conspiracy and that Lee Harvey Oswald was framed for the crime by the CIA. By 1991, I had read many books on the subject and was well-acquainted with the facts surrounding the case.

So when one of our book reviewers gave a favorable review to "Conspiracy of One," an absurd book that backed the lone-gunman theory, I responded by writing a series of book reviews that praised some books that exposed the conspiracy, including "High Treason," "Crossfire," "On the Trail of the Assassins" and "Plausible Denial."

Seven months later, my mother, Joan Courtney Beal of Indianapolis, died suddenly and unexpectedly at age 62 -- allegedly from a heart attack. It may indeed have been a heart attack, but since the CIA has long been able to induce fatal heart attacks by various methods, I believe she was murdered by the CIA to
begin the process of dismantling my so-called life. 

My mother was murdered on Oct. 3, 1991, exactly three years after Mae Brussell died. Mae was also murdered by the CIA for exposing their crimes, and so was her daughter, Bonnie. I named this blog after Mae because of her efforts to expose the JFK conspiracy and various other illegal activities carried out by the FBI, the CIA and lots of other corrupt government agencies. 

I believe my mother was murdered on the three-year anniversary of Mae Brussell's death to send me the message that her death was not the result of a random heart attack, but that she was murdered in retaliation for my efforts to expose the JFK conspiracy.

For more about all this, see my Brussell Sprout blog.