Chapter 7 — Mom’s Targeting, 1974
My Army term of enlistment expired December 29, 1973, so I went to live with mom at her apartment in Ocean View until I could find a place to live.
I didn’t have any idea what to do for a living; it took me some time to adjust to civilian life.
The first couple of weeks found me going out with a friend to old drinking spots and playing pool. And then we’d ride around to visit friends in the old neighborhood. I’d stay over my buddy’s parent’s house on weekends.
That friend today is targeted heavily, with all kinds of electrical problems in his house, health problems, and he hasn’t worked since he was younger. I always wondered why he walked with his head and shoulders at an angle, and now I know: he was implanted, which causes the muscles to tighten up on one side of the body. And he always had the bed-wetting problems like most victims.
The dumbest thing I did about this time was refusing to see Kitty, who I had dated for years. I now know that was manipulated and the perpetrators would have their plan to set me up with a girl that I had little in common with, and one whose last name would synonymous with righteousness, such as one might describe me.
The perpetrators assign names to individuals and then get them to perform a work that epitomizes the name.
To give a broad example, like the name of a tennis player whose name would be Loberly (lob the ball).
I see this all the time, and the public doesn’t understand the program and what is happening.
Anyway, after a few weeks staying with mom and getting some unemployment pay, I started sharing an apartment with a guy from the old neighborhood. One night we double-dated some girls, and that’s how I met Doris.
My roommate moved out shortly thereafter, and Doris, wanting to escape her mother’s dominance, moved in. After all, I needed help with the rent.
Doris Johnson was a couple years younger than I, but at that time was a sweet, bubbly, innocent girl that wanted big things in her life. She admitted to not being the smartest woman alive, for she barely passed high school.
I learned right off how little she knew about homemaking when she came into the living room one morning and asked me what I wanted for breakfast.
“Eggs and pancakes will be fine,” I responded.
She walked back into the kitchen and I didn’t hear anything for about ten minutes, wondering what she was doing.
Meekly she came back into the living room, “I don’t know how to cook eggs.”
So much for having a girlfriend that knew how to cook. So I taught her lots about cooking and gave her a good cookbook for Christmas.
I really don’t think it was her that voluntarily changed for the worse, but these perpetrators changed her behavior somewhere along the way — emphatically nine years later when she went to New Jersey and represented the state in a beauty pageant sponsored by a Big and Beautiful Women organization. She came home a very different person, full of swelling pride and arrogance, especially since she finished eighth or so.
Anyway, Doris had got a job at a local grocery store paying union wages, so that was really good. We were in love, enjoyed our dates at the disco parlors at Virginia Beach, movies, and eating at the cafeterias.
I went to work for a Telephone Inter-connect company located in Chesapeake. The company installed PBX systems all over the Southeast United States and I would go as far west as Missouri where three of us technicians installed telephone systems in various motels.
Days Inn was a big client. But I tired of traveling, and after all, I had just got out of the Army. The pay wasn’t that great either at $3.00 per hour, but I did enjoy using the meal ticket.
I saved up some money and bought me a 1957 Chevrolet, which used a lot of gas. Not a big deal back then, except the Arab oil embargo took place about this time.
Now that Doris and I became situated, the devil would cause trouble.
Mother came over to the apartment one morning paranoid as ever and wanted me to spend time with her.
Bang, bang, bang, went the door early one morning.
“I think someone is bothering me at the apartment.”
“Who?” I responded.
Nervous, pale, and shaking her head from side to side, “I don’t know what is going on,” she murmured
“Well, I’ll come over check things out.”
She suspected someone was stalking her, had done something to the gas stove (which they had with the pilot valve open and the smell of gas being emitted), and she couldn’t sleep. Nothing would calm her down.
Questioning her more revealed she had been dating the 75 year old doctor who was from Maryland.
I have no doubt he was contracted to implant her with a remote sensing device. She was never the same from that time period on, constantly humming some high pitched tune, nervous, paranoid, fidgety, and suspicious of everything.
So just why would someone bother dear old mom? She wouldn’t hurt no one or gossip about anything. At the time, she was working at Old Dominion University as a switchboard operator.
Anyway, I tried to get her to work off her anxiety by washing the car and doing some work around the house, and seeing that nothing was working, I called our family physician, Dr. Schneckner, to get his advice.
“Put her in the psychiatric unit at DePaul Hospital,” he said.
So mom and I talked it over, and she agreed to go to the Human Resources Institute — just what the perpetrators wanted.
Schneckner, my childhood ear, nose, and throat doctor, may have been a player in this MK-Ultra program. From what I understand, many German doctors were used.
Mom did not like the Care Unit, would not take her medicine, and wanted out.
She did however stay about a month.
In the meantime, my brother came from Tennessee to visit her, and he made matters worse. Always a moocher, he used mom’s car and wrecked it.
I promptly told him to go back home.
After mom got out of the Care Unit, she still had the same problems: for the implants take years to finally dissipate, and some never do.
But little was known about the life of implants in 1974 among the general public.
I had dad come over to the apartment one day to see if he could calm her, but mom still acted fitfully.
In August of 1974, I called her brother Tom in Alabama to come and get here and take her back to the Reservation.
Tom, a cabbie, made some money off the deal by selling her car and some household goods, and then he took her to their sister’s house in Alabama, where she stayed for awhile until she got a trailer on her land in Cherokee.
Mom lived in that trailer for a few years but eventually got assistance from the Indians to build a house. (This is the same place I would later find refuge after someone tried to kill me with direct energy in a Virginia Beach apartment and a Norfolk Post Office mail room during a two week period in 1990 while appealing a divorce decree.)
After the episodes with mom, I was contemplating my life’s future one morning sitting at the bottom of the stairwell on a concrete step at the parking area of the apartment complex where Doris and I lived.
The sun was shining between the tall apartment buildings at the entrance when out of nowhere a gust of wind in the corner of the building moved old trash and newspapers to fly up into the air.
Dust and debris were twirling in a circle until finally settling near me, with one yellow weathered page escaping to rest at my feet.
Tentatively I looked down at the weathered paper, it being a newspaper and all, and the editorial page stared at me in the face — with a letter I had written a month earlier about the Arab oil embargo I imagine.
My perpetrators would not have wanted me to receive confidence from getting published in the paper; therefore, I would not have received this paper.
But God had other plans with that whirlwind and I kept this incident in the back of my mind for years. I always felt my spiritual gift was to write, but I’ve been shut down time and time again by unseen evil forces.
That’s why I had to self-publish my first devotional books, and I could not find any help proof-reading or editing. The perpetrators went so far as to change words in the next book, Devotions A-Z, before it got printed. I corrected one word three times but it still got in the book as “do” rather than “to.” And wouldn’t you know they’d manipulate page sixty-six to make it look like I said “we are god” and not “to be with God.”
Anyway, I was certainly honored to have a devotion printed by the Upper Room for Christmas Eve of 1999.
I quit the telephone interconnect company and started working for the Holiday Inn downtown so I could be closer to home and Doris, who was definitely careless with money, time, and commitment. I learned later she was seeing an old boyfriend.
Poor girl just couldn’t control her life.
I found myself having to protect her more than equally sharing our lives. After all, she made a big mistake one night hitch-hiking from the beach with her girlfriend and finding herself in a man’s strange apartment with a knife at her throat being forced to do unnatural things. She was mindless at times. Maybe that’s because she admitted to breathing in exhaust smoke from the school bus because it smelled good.
At one point, she got very sick from not taking care of herself and ended up in the hospital being diagnosed with hepatitis. Girl looked awful, with yellow colored eyes and pale skin. She wouldn’t eat right and now she was paying the price. Her cigarette smoking and continual drinking of diet drinks didn’t help much.
Being a doorman was a menial job but I had a lot of fun. Many a celebrity would stay at the Inn, because it was next door to Chrysler Hall and the Scope Arena in downtown Norfolk. I would get to chauffeur the likes of Paul Lynde, Tony Randall, Pearl Bailey, and others. I made money by tips and wages, put food on the table, and settled into a homely life with Doris, who was learning to cook, sew, and all the other things a woman is supposed to know. We were a happy young couple with a just a few responsibilities.
I do believe I was manipulated to run Mayor Jordan’s handicapped drivable car through the glass doors one night at the Inn. I couldn’t get the gas petal to release itself.
Anyway, when the rental lease expired at the apartment, I tried to separate from Doris and get my own apartment. I wanted to get closer to Old Dominion University where I would attend classes with my G.I. Bill and learn something that would get me a good job. But as I was leaving the apartment and looked back upon the top steps, Doris was sitting there crying heavily. She did not want to go back to her mother.
I told her to come on and we moved into a cute little duplex, but it was near the Naval Air Base where a lot of sailors could be unruly at times. One day a local sailor would find his way to the back door of the apartment and try to enter. Doris, having been abused once in her life, chased him off with a knife.
We were going to have to move.