Persecuted But Not Forsaken Book: Chapter 6, The Three Six Program

Chapter 6: Persecuted but not Forsaken (My Life as a MK-ultra Victim)

Mom had sold the house and rented one at a 1536 address. She must have at least thought of me because it was a two bedroom.

God cares about us, even though we can’t always see it, and it has taken me some time to realize this even in the most desolate circumstance.

But the three-six numbers such as the last two digits of this house address would plague my life for the next twenty years.

Phone, personal identification, license plate, access code, golf cart, plane, and hotel room numbers would be designated with a three and six or a combination thereof.

Now, I know this is the devil’s way of tagging people with computer program numbers to stalk, harass, and even kill people, all under guise of some kind of mark of the beast as described in the scriptures. .

Here is wisdom, Let him that hath understanding, count the number of the beast; for it is the number of a man; and his number is six hundred, three score, and sixty-six.

Revelation 13: 18

The MK-ultra program started off with 36,000 victims.

Other victims have also complained about common numbers throughout their lives. .

One female victim in Missouri had been plagued by fours and twos (which un-coincidentally add up to 6). Her phone numbers, residence addresses, and other personal media would consist of fours and twos, even her Social Security Number. Other female victims also complain of the four-two targeting.

This all reminds me of when I got to South Carolina, and I looked at my electric bill only to see the account number ending in three-sixes.

My Social Security numbering adding up to or subtracting to the “six” digit all throughout; the phone number of the house where I would eventually start my own family would be 461-6466, and the address was 6146.

The numerological pattern did not stop: Personal Identification Numbers would be assigned such as 6264.

In the Army, I would be assigned with a “36K20” Military Occupational Specialty number – all products of a system designed to manipulate and control my life by technology.

I thought I’d get ahead of the evil number assigner the last time I went to the Division of Motor Vehicles to get a new license plate for my car by telling the clerk I wanted no sixes in my license number. She said she understood.

The three sixes are tagged to victims to make them identifiable. And my perpetrators usually have 3-6’s on their car license plates. Some of them appear to be unwitting victims, and others have been blackmailed or paid.

The terrorist attack on the New York Trade Towers on 9/11/01 is a component of the three six targeting. The nine upside down is in these sick perpetrators book is a six, but it would be a six if satellite imaging depicts it upside down.

Just look at the numbers in the tragedies that have occurred in the last century – and you will see a pattern of three sixes, whether it be the date, address, plane flight number, number of people victimized, caliber rifle, etc . . . .

Anyway, back to the Florida return trip.

I had not told mom I was in Florida, so I guess she didn’t feel obligated to tell me she had moved.

I walked in the door of the house that morning October of 1970 to greet her, and without looking, she mentioned that breakfast was ready and to have some if I wanted.

Nothing else was said and she went off to work. That’s mom, but the targeting does that.

There was nothing here for me in Norfolk.

But one good thing happened as a result of her moving: now I could go back to Lake Taylor High School. I tried it for awhile, and even went to vocational school for electrical class.

But I was confused and could not concentrate on my studies.

So I decided to join the Merchant Marines. I went downtown to the Custom House and told the man I wanted to join, but they rejected me because of my age.

Then I tried to join the Air Force. I told the man to give me any test and I would pass it, but he also declined saying I was not old enough at 17 to join.

I think both events were manipulated to try and get me to join the Army or Marines and die in Vietnam.

So I walked next door and joined the Army with my mother’s signature on the enlistment form.

I had to do something; I was really unhappy with the high school travel situation, and although I tried working for an electrical contractor after dropping out of school, I just did not have the self-discipline to learn a trade at this point in my life.

Mom questioned my judgment about going in the Army while everyone else was trying to get out of the Armed Services and Vietnam, but I figured the war to be over soon and everything would be okay.

Just after Christmas, 1970, I got on a bus to travel to Richmond, Virginia for orientation and a physical examination.

We recruits were given some fine rooms at the Thomas Jefferson Hotel. And so we decided to party a little. We managed to find a couple older guys to get us some beer. After that we went exploring the hotel, which was magnificently furnished with plush red carpet, stone sculptures, and pictures of colonial America. Chatting with other guys who were facing the same rough odds I was in life was great. I knew I had made the right choice to get away from home!

After a couple days, I and my new friend George, a black fellow from around the Norview area in Norfolk, were off to Fort Campbell, Kentucky for basic training.

Thank God for George, because he got me back to the barracks one evening after a few drinks too many, and he gave me some great advice later in boot camp.

Sitting in a class one afternoon, the instructor informed me I had one of the top three scores after general testing. That 118 point score qualified me to attend Officer Candidate School (118 I know now was just another product of the three sixes).

I was kind of confused on what to do. I’m not a person who likes to sit in the front seat, not that I can’t handle it. But I’d as well be a humble little servant in a mighty castle.

I felt indecisive and looked over at George in the next seat.

Well, what do you think George? I can be an officer.”

Don’t do it, he said.“Those Second Lieutenants are the first ones on the front line in Vietnam.”

Oh. I figured there was a catch.”

The instructor wanted an answer in thirty minutes, and I gave him one in thirty seconds.

Not interested, sir. But thank you very much.”

I know now the offer of OCS was another attempt to get me killed.

It was about six weeks before the drill instructors would let us go off base, and I took advantage of that weekend.

A few of us went into Clarksville Tennessee, had a few drinks and found our way to a movie. It was bitter cold that Saturday evening in February of 1971 as snow was falling and covering the streets of Clarksville. In the motel room, I felt lonelier than ever.

The next morning, I awoke to a foot of snow on the ground.

Across the street was a Baptist Church, so I decided to go. I felt I needed to go to church and was able to talk someone in going with me. The service would give me some confidence about life that I really needed.

Basic training never bothered me. I was always able to run well, endure cold temperatures, and get up early.

Many recruits weren’t so lucky. They’d complain of frostbite on the rifle range, shortness of breath on long hikes, and lack of sleep.

Man. This was much better than living on the streets or a house with no one to help me. I had slept on a park bench on lots of occasions, and sometimes I’d find an old vacant automobile to camp out in for a night.

The only thing bothering me was our instructors deciding our platoon was too fat; so they decided to cut down on breakfast and issue each of us one egg, a piece of bread, and a pancake.

I wasn’t fat. I was only 159 pounds at 6 foot and I needed food. So I would prod the cooks in the mess hall to give me more.

The guy who bunked under me had a heck of a time. He was overweight and sweat would just drip off him even at night. He could barely breath at times it seemed to me. He also had near flat feet and had a difficult time marching. They did finally give him some kind of profile that limited his participation. I would help him out and clean his rifle to keep him from getting in trouble.

But Basic training got my attitude right.

I was marching along one day with my helmet cocked back like I always had it because it took a lot of pressure off my neck, and as any good hard working Asian person will tell you, balancing items is the way to carry them.

The drill instructor didn’t find this philosophy too entertaining, and one day came up behind me and slammed his hand down on my helmet jarring my head.

I told you to get that helmet on right!”

Maybe he had warned me. I couldn’t remember.

Give me twenty trips around the platoon.”

Now that will tire a man out while the platoon is marching.

But I later learned incidents like these are instigated to see if a trainee can take the discipline.

I remember going out to the rifle range for a week or so in the most miserable weather of cold rain mixed with snow.

The visibility was awful with a fog that covered the area as the instructor would have us adjust our rifles for Kentucky wind and Tennessee elevation.

The 300-yard silhouette of a person was barely visible as I remember it to this day – the patches of fog drifting slowly by the target with rain pelting the brim of my hat.

The ground was wet, and after about two hours, all my layers of clothing were soaked, and then water would be drip off my cap into the rifle sight area. I thought if the enemy is out in this kind of weather at such a great distance, it is going to be very difficult to make a direct kill.

I was at an obvious handicap with the M-16 ejecting cartridges off my right cheek scorching my skin. The instructor advised I shoot from the right shoulder. I looked at him like he should go somewhere else and gave him the Indian silent treatment. Lefthanders are marksmen.

Somehow I scored an 86 on the rifle range that miserable day, which were only a few points less than some of the better shooters.

I finished Basic Training in early March and bussed to Fort Leonard Wood, Missouri, schooling to fulfill field wireman requirements and climb some splintered wood poles

On a humid morning at the pole training grounds, I was descending a thirty-foot pole when my gaff slipped and I came straight down with a robust four-inch splinter in my thigh. It didn’t look near as bad as the fellow next to me who had a big hole in the toe of his boot.

I was taken to the hospital where the doctor pulled the splinter without anesthetic. I had heard the orderly say the supply was depleted.

The nurse had to hold me down, and finally I asked for a rag or something to put in my mouth as I was in much pain. They gave me one.

The next morning at the barracks, I woke up with a swollen red leg from top to bottom. There was still some splinter in there, so back I went to the hospital, where fortunately, there was a doctor there who had a straighter knife and some anesthesia.

I have a jagged scar in that area today, but at least I was given compensation several years after I was discharged from the Army. And of course, my perpetrators would take advantage and put an implant right in that area.

The injury was a blessing in disguise because it kept me back from graduating with my class and going to Vietnam.

I was sent to Ft. Riley, Kansas, where I would stay for the next twenty months with a class of draftees, and I made the best of it while I was there, befriending a guy named Craig, who was from the northwest.

We had a some good times playing racquetball, going to concerts all over the mid-west, and lulling many evenings in the bars around Manhattan, Kansas. We hitchhiked nearly everywhere until I brought my car back from Norfolk one weekend.

The covert drug program I had avoided it so long in my life started to surround me: drugs were everywhere in the Army in 1970 with soldiers bringing back hashish from Germany, heroin from Vietnam, and marijuana from Mexico. But I maintained my integrity and used very little.

My buddy’s military term of service expired before mine, and when he left, I became rather depressed. We had done so much together. And now the Army ordered me to Korea,

I did not want to go and did everything I could to try and get reassigned to Stateside duty my last year. I visited Ft. Story near home trying to get a transfer but no one would be in the office when I got there.

Nothing worked, and in December of 1972 I found myself on an airplane after visiting a friend in Los Altos leaving Travis Air Force Base in Oakland California stopping over in Japan for fuel and going to Korea.

When I arrived and bunked up for the night at Camp Casey, I got terribly sick. I don’t know if it was from some partying I did with friends in Los Altos, California or from something I ate or drink after entering Korea. I vomited much and thought it was the end for me, one of the sickest moments of my life.

Somehow I got on the back of a five-ton truck in the early morning hours that was transporting a bunch of us to Camp Pelham near the Demilitarized Zone on a freezing night just before Christmas — and I had ice on my pile cap. It was very cold.

The next day I hired a houseboy to take care of making my bed, cleaning my clothes, and shining my shoes.

Settling into the bunk next to the potbelly diesel filled stove probably wasn’t the best idea because it blew up on a chilly night and everyone had to go outside. Such is life in Korea.

Mornings were spent in the communication’s shop trying to keep warm but occasionally we would venture out during the day and check out the wiring on the telephone poles. Eventually I would be assigned to change it out with a group of mixed Republic of Korean and American soldiers.

It was a futile effort and I decided to look for another job. And I’m not sure how I talked myself into getting the courier’s job but it was the best thing that ever happened.

I now had my own jeep and would travel the country picking up and delivering classified information over the northern part of South Korea.

I suppose my perpetrators had me where they wanted me: having access to classified information. But I never had any intention of looking at what I was carrying. For one thing, items were sealed, and they didn’t interest me. I was just glad to have a decent job away from the ROK soldiers who had excess kimchi on their breath and didn’t want to take orders.

Off I would take every morning, stopping at several camps on the way to headquarters at Camp Casey. Then I would grab the latest edition of the Stars and Stripes newspaper, a cup of coffee, some doughnuts, and I’d lull around a couple hours at Camp Casey and head on back.

Just before arriving back at the compound, I’d drive the jeep through ankle deep river to wash off the mud. The Army never complained about how it was done, but the Koreans downstream weren’t too thrilled because I was disturbing the water they were washing clothes in.

I didn’t think they were sensitive about things in life considering they were hanging dogs and setting fire to them to get them prepared for dinner. But their cheesy looks usually told the story.

I would at this time thank a North Carolina native named Wallace who was a mechanic at the motor pool for gassing up my jeep: it was the fastest in the fleet.

Korea wasn’t all bad. I met the most wonderful woman of my life there and I would stay with her every chance possible. We travelled to many places; exploring the country and looking for ginseng; going to Seoul for dining and lodging, and to Musan where there was a theatre.

It was hard to go wrong at that time when the train ride was eighty cents and the movie was twenty cents. And I wish I could have brought her back but I didn’t have enough money for her plane fare.

After seven months in Korea, the Army offered me a promotion to Sergeant if I would re-enlist for six years. I turned it down. I wanted to go home.

. My perpetrators didn’t like this and I was given extra duty picking up rocks out of ditches in the evening hours. Their excuse was that I talked back to an alcoholic Sergeant.

Why was it such a big deal that I did not re-enlist? But this is what is targeted individuals go through when these administrators of hate have access to manipulating events with their high-tech remote sensing applications.

In a normal world, no one would care, but in a targeted world, situations are manipulated around the victim for defamation, oppression, and servitude.

I would be confined to the Compound for two weeks, and I sure missed my girlfriend during those two weeks. I would look through the barbed wire fence across the creek to the village where her hooch was each night.

Staying at camp was miserable, so a friend Darren and I would go over to the club and began drinking those mixed alcoholic drinks at 25 cents a pour until 2:00 in the morning and stagger back to the hooch — only to hear the camp cannon fire three times twenty minutes later — which means to get dressed for battle and attend a formation.

Man, I was sick, and I spent a considerable time throwing up my drinks on the side of the road as I was driving the First Lieutenant. That was a long day.

And then race relations deteriorated at the camp, and one night there was a big riot where lots of soldiers were getting hurt.

My flying time couldn’t be soon enough, because the officers thought the troops needed a twenty-five mile march to quiet them down, and there we went with full battle gear up into the hills for an overnight march.

Some guys couldn’t make it, and I begged for the medic to take my buddy back to camp in a vehicle after he told me his brother died from such a march.

And they did take Darren back to camp. As a result, I was detailed to guard duty on the perimeter at 3: 00 a.m. I suppose for speaking up. A very lonely fox hole on a moonless night at the North Korea border.

I was determined to get out of Korea any way possible. A clerk at Camp Casey answered my prayers and asked me where I wanted to go.

Home! Anywhere near home in Virginia.”

How about Fort Belvoir,” he asked.

That sounds good,” I responded.

But what’s there?”

A bricklaying class.”

Great.”

On my next trip to Camp Casey, he had the orders signed for an early two month exit from Korea. I was ecstatic.

Finally it came time for me to exit the country in October of 1973 and I had to travel from Camp Pelham to Camp Casey to catch the plane. It was about thirty miles south.

I thought I might stay with my girlfriend the night prior and leave from there early in the morning; however about 4:00 a.m., I heard the Camp cannon again fire three times—which meant to fall into group formation with full battle gear.

Now just how coincidental is that? It’s not. It was just another attempt to try and delay me from leaving the country – for whatever reason. (Back home my mother’s targeting would begin in earnest.)

There was no way I was going back to the Camp Pelham compound. I had my duffle bag packed with me. I hung out a few more hours with my girl, made more love, and said goodbye — got a cab, and took the back roads to Camp Casey — where I was immediately apprehended and taken to jail.

No problem. I knew all the officers at Camp Pelham from transporting them around all year and their secret documents. So, they wouldn’t come get me, and in a couple days I was on the plane heading to my next stop, Fort Belvoir. Bye. I heard later that my girlfriend went to the airport to check on me and waving as the plane flew off, and it just broke my heart, as I read her letter.

Project Transition was a program designed to give veterans job training to prepare them for civilian work upon leaving the Armed Forces. I was taking advantage of it.

I would hitch-hike home on weekends to see Mom and Kitty.

The perpetrators had been busy back in my hometown!

Mom had moved to that apartment near the beach.

She loved the beach, and it would only be a two block walk to go swimming and sun bathing.

If only she wouldn’t have started dating a doctor twenty years her senior from the eastern shore of Maryland!

Who is he and what does he want?

©Klee2017

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90 Minutes in Heaven or Something Else?

I just got through reading an account of Don Piper’s book 90 minutes in Heaven — about him in a vehicle accident and severely injured and seeing heaven.

I haven’t finished the whole book, just the account of heaven’s description.

I’ve been to heaven, right during my conversion to Christ, and I haven’t seen nothing like Don Piper, but then, I’m an Mk-ultra victim, and I got just a little different opinion.

Now I’m not criticizing Piper here but name synomization (Piper) is taking place here and very well goes along with the targeting aspect of hearing music. That’s point No. 1.

No. 2 is that nearly all ti’s (and I surmise that Mr. Piper’s accident was programmed since he was going to begin a new church and a prison bus hit him on a bridge on a route not normally used) understand the air is full of musical electromagnetic frequencies to the voice boxes of humans for mind control by the perpetrators.

Number 3 is that Babylon was full of music. And her trumpeters, flute players, etc . . . were cast down (Revelation 18: 21-22).

Revelation 19: gives us a good description of heavenly aura.

Number 4: Well, sure there’s praise in heaven but not so much in a worldly language.

No, brethren, this is holy land.

Number 5: Us ti’s know the devil can make holograms affecting humans to make them think they are seeing something real when it’s not.

This accident of Mr. Piper, in my opinion, was a programmed event to stop him from starting a church, hinder the spread of the gospel, and continue the spread of induced sacrificial offerings by the devil in a world corrupted by radiological pollution.

I’m sorry for Don Piper and his accident; instances like these are common.

Many of us have been assaulted for years just trying to get the truth out about radio illegal programming in the environment.

I hope Mr. Piper joins the fight against mind control targeting and induced human sacrifice because this world epidemic must be stopped.

 

©Klee2017

Memorial Needed for U.S. Govt. Exp. Victims

I’ve brought this issue up before, but no one seemed to be interested.

But a memorial, museum, or whatever is needed for us victims.

I’ll be glad to be the treasurer for a short time, with funds strictly pre-designated for a memorial, or whatever, voted on by approximately five of us long time ti’s.

Nothing would be used for anyone’s personal use.

  1. A memorial is definitely one goal.

I would suggest a mission statement be first stated (like ending  targeting,  justice for victims, etc . . . ). I guess I’d have to write up a memo of understanding or something.

Anyway, if anyone is interested in helping out or submitting funds for a memorial, just send it here (mail it to my home address) and I’ll open an account at the bank and will give an accounting every quarter or so. And I’ll put it in my will that it transfers to another reputable ti.

blessings.

Ken Lee

Persecuted But Not Forsaken Book: Chapter 5 (Mk-ultra victim)

Chapter 5 –Junior High School

I made it through Junior High School on talent because I sure didn’t study much.

I spent more time buying candies early in the morning at the drug store to take to school and sell them for a profit before the bus came.

I usually cleared 100%. Sweet-tarts, Jujubes, and an occasional candy bar would fill my bag to sell at school. And I would usually sell all.

Dad came back into my life about 1968 and tried to get me involved in a fraternity called the Knights of Pythias. I hated the indoctrination process.

It wasn’t me to become involved with a bunch of guys that raised hell, drank alcohol, and partied all weekend. I was more like mom, quite, reserved, intuitive, and a nature lover.

The first day of being a fraternal brother at Lake Taylor High School in the initiation process was too degrading for me, making me do pushups, carrying other kids’ books, etc . . . I was already being degraded by my targeting; the last thing I needed were co-students harassing me. I think I actually finished the initiation process one night when they made me drink a quart jar of something ungodly. And then I got flogged.

I don’t believe any of those actions prepared me for being a better person or enjoying fellowship: it reminds me of sadism, and the very actions I now fight against. But anyway, I participated in very little activities of the fraternity, choosing instead to be with my girlfriend Kitty.

I went with Kitty for several years in my teens and now I realized why I felt so comfortable with her in the den at her parent’s house: it was below ground and the electronic targeting couldn’t get to me.

One other memory I have that has been so prevalent was a shopping venture mom and I went on one Friday night after her work. Or maybe it was a Saturday. But anyway, the part I remember most was looking at and being able to select a race car set at a Sear’s store when I was about thirteen. So why is that etched on my mind?

It was below ground: I was less targeted.

What may have been a simple event to you reading this was a monumental one to me when I was free of electromagnetic targeting!

There have been certain geological areas where I felt free years later, but the perpetrators eventually covered those areas. One was the Nantahala Gorge in Western North Carolina, which was surrounded by cliffs. Another was a gap in the mountain near Cherokee. I could have stayed there for days enjoying the freedom.

About this time in 1969 Dad re-married, and I lived with him, Mary, and her son in Virginia Beach for a short time. Her son David was real cool and would take me out at night in his mustang. He eventually became a pastor. But he and dad really never got along too well.

While at Virginia Beach, I got a job at high volume gas station at Witchduck Road.

After the summer, I moved back home with mom.

To further complicate my life, forced school busing arrived in the city in 1970, and I would be bussed to an all black school, Booker T. Washington High School near downtown Norfolk

Looking at the dilapidated tilted bus with a near flat tire, exhaust smoke covering the road behind it, and students hanging out the windows made me want to turn around and go back home.

I pleaded with mom, “Mom. I can not go to that school. Is there any way you can send to the new private school that has formed up at the church.”

I’ll think about it,” she responded.

And that was the last I heard of it. But every time I passed the church on bicycle while delivering papers, I envied the little brown church where I could have gone to school.

I attended cross town Booker T. Washington High School for three days, and then I looked for greener pastures, I didn’t need fighting on the bus, mayhem in the classrooms, and the weapons that were exhibited by the students; so I decided that State of Florida would be a better place to spend my time.

So I found my neighborhood friend Brian and asked him to go with me. I had made my plans.

This school situation is not going to work. I can’t learn anything there and I think we ought to go somewhere else.”

Yea, and I’m getting sick of my mother telling me what to do,” he responded.

Meet me over in the field at the end of the turn around tomorrow morning.”

Brian and I met at the parking lot of our good old playground, and we took off in my newly bought Pontiac.

It took us quite some time to get to Florida because I took Route 17 nearly all the way.

We stayed for about three months, up until the time Brian was making his money getting his pictures taken by someone who used a hotel room off the boardwalk.

I got a little paranoid about it all, though I had a good job as a busboy with a rest home and making decent money. But I did get homesick for Kitty, and one day I told Brian I wanted to go back home. I had an empty feeling at our motel room, and I didn’t want anything to do with drugs that Brian was messing with.

One good thing that happened on the trip was that we had stopped off in Myrtle Beach, and I enjoyed the laid back atmosphere. I doubt it’s no accident I’ve made my home near there forty years later.

But anyway, when I got home, Mom was gone! There was no one at the house! And there were no signs of her being there!

I rushed up to the corner drugstore and called Kitty, and she said mom had moved to a neighborhood across the highway.

Preachers: Preach the Word!

 

I went to a  Baptist church revival service and heard everything but the word of God, which prompted me to write this message and what preachers are supposed to do.

Consider that Ezra opened the book and read the law to the people (Nehemiah 8).

Jesus opened the book and read Isaiah to the people (Luke 4: 17).

Moses had done the same thing: opened the book of the law and read it to the people (Deuteronomy 4).

But the preachers nowadays hardly ever preach or teach from the Bible though they are ordained to do it.

The Bible doesn’t say talk about personal life (2 Corinthians 4: 5), sports, money, or tell a joke — there are plenty of times to talk about those subjects outside of God’s reverential house.

God’s word is a reminder of the freedom we have in America, a reminder that God’s laws and mercies pave the way for prosperous lives.

Jesus preached the word (Mark 2: 2). Consider also that Jesus only used parables when teaching his disciples (Mark 4: 34).

This is not difficult: simply transition the message from a worldly explanation to the spiritual side. Possibly something like: the apple, which grows on a tree, slowly receives nutrients from its branch and the sun, and we receive God’s word with patience to become mature and produce goodness.

A preacher should do his homework, consult lexicons, expositories, dictionaries, archaeological and historical facts, and maybe find some relevant quotations from biblical scholars, and apply the message to our lives. Pray about the subject.

Jesus said to teach the people by parables of the world, so unbelievers can understand].

And preach the kingdom of God (Luke 9: 60).

The tenets for preaching according to Jesus are listed in Luke 4: 18: preach the gospel to the poor, heal the brokenhearted, preach deliverance to the captives, recovering of sight to the blind, and to set at liberty those are bruised.

I was raised in a Presbyterian Church where the word was exonerated and studied and I miss it.

 

©Klee2017

Persecuted But Not Forsaken Book: Chapter 4; Targeted Adolescence

Chapter 4 — My Targeted Adolescence

And this is when I was attacked and victimized as I explained earlier.

After the covert implant attack in my bedroom in 1965, I went from an absolutely outstanding student in 5th grade to mediocrity, loneliness, and problems with my health.

My summers were spent wandering the streets of Tidewater on my bicycle, going as far as Virginia Beach on occasion and even Chesapeake Beach on two occasions. That was ludicrous! Seeing that they were ten miles from the house and the traffic in the Norfolk area was heavy.

But there in my targeted world, it was an escape – to load up my bicycle basket with a few snacks in the morning, tools for the trip, and take off for destination unknown.

Many times I would pedal the three-mile ride to the Airport, where I would catch turtles and ride the trails in the botanical gardens.

But I did have fun. And when the sun went down, I often loaded back up the bike and ended my day at Norfolk International Park where the Triple-A Tidewater Tides played baseball.

The attack would destroy the best years of my life: I would suffer ten years of receiving subliminal music emanations to my head – songs that repeated themselves over and over. Worse, I became distracted easily and could no longer concentrate on my schoolwork.

My life would continue on its downward spiral. My school grades dropped. I couldn’t make the transition to eighth grade at Taylor Junior High School. And I had few friends.

Something wasn’t right. I wasn’t dumb, because I had outstanding grades all through elementary school. In the seventh grade, I actually passed a test that put me in an accelerated math class program taking algebra a year earlier than everyone else. But I certainly wasn’t capable of good grades with the targeting.

I knew I needed to go to work so I got a newspaper route, and I started working at a gas station. I suppose now this is what I was programmed to do: flunk school and go to work.

Here is where I learned to grease car fittings, change oil, and fix tires. I’d sweep off the whole service lot area, wash windows, and empty garbage cans along with waiting on customers. I’d be filthy at the end of the day but loved every minute of it.

I started off at 35 cents an hour. When I left the station at 17, I was making $1.25/hour. I was cheap labor for sure. But it was good for me. And then I could afford to buy my own food.

But now I understand why mom did not stock the refrigerator: there was the threat of poison. Dad would have never done such a thing, but the perpetrators would try and make it look like it because he was an exterminator. And the perpetrators always want to further a divorce and create some kind of suspicious actions between the man and wife.

I’m continually amazed to this day how a person can open their refrigerator and not give the least thought of something being drugged

Nothing could be trusted at home. Still can’t fifty years later. I’ve been carrying a good part of my food for at least ten years.

The first thing I believe they were drugging was my salt. When I started carrying my own salt with me, I started to heal. And then I began to figure it all out.

Most electronically targeted victims claim the perpetrators poison their foods if not only to induce physical sickness but accentuate the remote electronic targeting. If it had not been for my knowledge about activated charcoal neutralizing poisons, I’d be dead for sure.

Perhaps since you are reading this book, you have started to put together events in your life that may have indeed been programmed. The first thing that happens is you get angry, and then you want justice, as many of us victims.

Were all these strange happenings the products of divorce? Not hardly. The targeting of my family has begun in earnest. These perpetrators want to separate us, and then slow kill us, which is what happened to all of us.

I was clued in one day when I tried to hook up an old bum friend for a date with mom.

He may have dressed in rags, but he was smart: he was a former electrician at the Navy Yard.

A chain smoker originally from North Carolina, he came to Norfolk to get a job at the Navy yard like many people did during the war. But he was anything but stupid. He had an old Chevrolet in mint condition in his garage. He also had an old truck up until the time he got crazier. And he was stockpiling silver quarters and dollar certificates long before anyone else ever thought about it. I saw his stash one day when he invited me into his house. Far as I know, I was the only person who ever had gone into those secret quarters.

And I had seen him dress well on occasion, clothes far from his daily one-piece set of work overalls that had holes in them.

The man was a victim. He had been under psychiatric care for years, and everyone in the neighborhood called him crazy. I knew he was not crazy, from spending hours talking with him near the drug store and listening to his stories.

After mom and him went out, the next day he made a remark I never forgot: “They are going to kill you and your mother.”

I did not reply, but I knew he would not lie. I could only wonder about his statement however as the years passed. Now I know the perpetrators and their technology have the power to make people say something with a forced speech program.

I’ve seen the patent on it, and I’ve experienced the continual pulsations to my neck and my vocal chords.

Those of you who grew up in small towns and had close families may not understand how secret activities like these can happen, but when a family is in a large metropolis such as the Norfolk area, where there are a lot of covert agencies, such as the FBI, CIA, Armed Forces Defense intelligence agencies, and God knows what other clandestine agencies and corporations exist including foreign entities, evil exists!

I mean, who knows what your neighbor is doing or where he works?

Or what about the milkman coming to your door? Or how about the diaper service guy coming to pick up the diapers?

In the city, you learn to beware.

If the same covert involuntarily needling of my body had not occurred years later, I would have never figured out my family was being targeted.

But when I awoke one morning in the back of my pickup truck at the Emerald Isle fishing pier in 2004 to find the right side of my body paralyzed, I put the story all together. I could barely walk after this injection to my nervous system and I still suffer today from that event.

The perpetrators knew I was going there. They knew I had figured out the targeting program. And they knew I was going to expose it, because I was putting people together in different parts of the country with my petition.

After the attack I visited another nearby fishing pier, and when I walked down the pier a man who was sullenly smoking a cigarette with an arm on the wooden rail looked over at me and said, “I hear you’ve been having a little trouble.”

I had never seen the man in my life, but obviously he had participated in my attack.

I probably never should have gone to this area, but I wanted to not only take a break and go fishing, but a girl from Atlantic Beach, N.C. had signed the petition, and I wanted to talk with her and learn more about the targeting.

American should end Dual Citizenships and Abandon Int’l Space Treaties

Last night one of the victims brought out that our targeting  is occurring because of international agreements — which may be true.

Just look at the Space Treatie where foreign satellites are allowed over American airspace — under the guise of conducting research in space, which the “American” committee on Foreign Relations signed off on years ago  (and look at the names of the past members on the panel!).

Then there’s the problem of allowing foreign American citizenship under dual citizenship laws, which by the way, got Israel in a lot of trouble in the past with God almighty because believers shouldn’t mix (marry) with people of foreign nations, theologically.

Well, it’s no different with American stamped Christian ideology where the believers aren’t to be mixed with unbelievers lest they get carried with sin.

Many other countries do not allow dual citizenship.

That said, the oppressed state of America will continue until the high images of cell phone tower and microwave antennae and only God knows what else is above the earth come down.

God has never taken 2nd place to images of metal, wood, or anything below or above the earth.

Dying Does Not Forego the Mission: Jonah’s Fault

As many people know, the biblical character Jonah tried to escape fulfilling God’s mission to go to Nineveh and proclaim a judgment of evil on the city; Jonah was found hiding in a ship.

When Jonah was interrogated, he said he would gladly accept death to save the boat and its crew from destruction in the storm at sea; he would rather be thrown into the deep waters overboard rather than have the ship destroyed.

Jonah got his wish but never escaped his original mission to go to Nineveh.

A lady friend mentioned she was not afraid to die, and many other people proclaim the same thing.

But having no fear of death does not justify taking one’s life or even hoping to die: there should be willingness to fulfill God’s mission on earth and testify about God –if the person knows God.

Of course, the non-believer would be working a way towards salvation and may even come close to dying.

So there’s no escape to perform God’s will by an agreement of faith through the living Christ.

It’s sad that Jonah forgot God and went into the sea and suffered in the belly of a great fish with weeds strangling him but if often takes corrective affliction to remember God’s authority.

Death is not an option and there is no praising God from the grave.

Even after Jonah was cast upon by the beach by the great fish and went to Nineveh to proclaim the city was full of evil, he still wished for death.

But God still had the last words in Jonah chapter 4: Dost thou well to be angry?

One of my most favorite verses in scripture is Ephesians 4: 30: And grieve not the Holy Spirit of God, by whom ye are sealed unto the day of redemption.

May God be glorified this season as the reason for living – whether to proclaim judgment or fulfill the mission to love, honor, and obey God’s law through Jesus the Son, who gives life and salvation.

©KLee2017

Persecuted But Not Forsaken: Chapter 3

 

(You can buy my book Persecuted But Not Forsaken at Amazon, but if you hang around here long enough, you may be able to read the whole thing as I post chapters occasionally.)

Chapter 3: Targeting

I don’t remember dad being at the house much after we moved in. I can remember us watching some television together — shows like Bonanza on Sunday night, and of course the Green Bay Packers and their playoff games. And oh yes, Dad and I would watch the Saturday afternoon baseball game the only and first year he was there.

And I remember watching and learning how to play cribbage, which he and mom played at the dining room table.

Other than that, my memories aren’t much, other than a couple of times he picked me up and took me to his apartment after him and mom separated.

Dad began to be gone more than he was at home, because his business for one thing.

The programming puts many talented people into vocations such as pest control, plumbing sewage, janitorial, housecleaning, and nanny jobs – anything to keep the victim out of jobs that influence public opinion.

Then dad was poisoned when a waitress gave him household ammonia in place of ammonia spirits for a headache. His esophagus was burned up and he would be fed through a tube for months.

I do remember visiting him in the hospital and seeing all the tubes hooked up to him.

In order to follow dad’s programming, a similar thing would happen to me twenty-six years later – poisoned at 33 years old.

That’s what the programming does: tries to get the kids to follow the actions of the parents and blame maladies on genetics, regardless of personal character.

Years later, the perpetrators would do a similar thing to my daughter, sending her to a school 1500 miles away from home right near the military base where I was stationed twenty some years earlier. That was absurd, when there were plenty of great schools right in Virginia, but she didn’t know any better.

For another example of programming, Dad had earlier cooked for a living, and cooking would be the one merit badge I would later earn in the Boy Scouts. I really didn’t have that much interest in cooking, but there I was cooking eggs and bacon for the group of scouts while on a camping trip.

But anyway, my mother became paranoid about this time when Dad was gone a lot; she did not trust the food, her sister, and especially dad. She started withdrawing from society.

Where before we went over to my aunt’s house every Sunday night to play poker, talk, and have fun — all of that stopped because mom and my aunt stopped socializing.

It’s difficult to understand mom filing for divorce because she was a regular church attendee and took me every Sunday.

For what it’s worth, her divorce lawyer’s last name at the bottom of her decree was Abrahav. Years later, I tried to research this lawyer’s name but found nothing on Norfolk’s city register.

But I suppose it was Abraham, and like many lawyers who are ashamed of their filings or don’t want to be known, their name suddenly becomes illegible or they send one of their interns over to the court to do the dirty work.

Now dad was popular with women, for he serviced restaurants and met quite a few women.

Maybe that’s the reason mom filed for divorce, but she wanted financial security, and dad’s business was going to take time to grow.

About this time is when her mother’s estate was being divided in Cherokee and the Baker roll revision made her an Indian. So she started working her way back home.

My brother, who was living with us at the time along with his beauty queen of a wife, began to feel stressed from his draftsman’s job at a time when stress was not a household problem.

His wife got pregnant, and then they moved out of our house into an apartment near my aunt.

I babysat my nephew for some time, and un-coincidentally enough later found he was dancing in one of those skimpily dressed shows in New York.

But MK-Ultra is partly designed to make sex slaves out of its victims. Many a victim has complained of sexual attacks from electronic targeting. Manipulating the electro-magnetic fields around a victim to push the blood to sensitive areas will cause sexual stimulation.

The victims chosen are good looking, which reminds me of such biblical characters such as Daniel and his friends who were fair to look upon and enslaved to serve the king. They had no blemish upon them and were intelligent.

My brother quit his job because of stress, and got some kind of compensation as a result. He was definitely targeted.

I heard some kind of story the FBI was chasing my brother because he was involved in a shootout. He eventually landed in Memphis, Tennessee, where he re-married a nice Christian woman and had a second child. He was awarded disability and would not work another day in his life as far I know, choosing to play golf.

The last time I saw him was in a Cherokee Courtroom when he threatened me shortly after I filed a caveat to a copy of a testamentary will my mother had not signed: the original copy had been destroyed.

It’s my opinion mom’s remote targeting started when she was on the Reservation, but she started showing the signs of being targeted just about the time of the divorce here in Norfolk in 1965 — just shortly after we all had to moved to the house in Fox Hall, which would be an event the perpetrators like to blame their activities on.

Many victims at first think a particular incident has caused their targeting, but as time passes, they find that the targeting had been from birth.

Because of mom’s paranoia, and wisdom I might add, for dinner each night, I would have to ride my bicycle up to a grocery store one mile away to get food.

I didn’t mind, because I kept the leftover change and bought comics.

I enjoyed the trips to the store, traversing the sloped ditch behind trucking company, and continuing across neighborhoods to the grocery store.

Mom would hardly ever cook anything out of the refrigerator. That was a no-no in our targeted world: there was never no more than three items in the refrigerator.

Mom stopped socializing with her sister, stopped working at her new job at the water department downtown, and went to work as a secretary with Colonial Stores credit union, which was actually closer to home.

Shortly after the divorce, mom met an old friend by the name of H. Wenton.

Howard wasn’t too charming, and he had a drinking problem, but he did work and bring home money which is something we lacked for some time.

I never had more than three pairs of pants and a couple shirts, but this is also representative of the targeting, and if I do acquire something nice, the perpetrators will put holes in it or make a tear. This wasn’t too common in the first years of targeting but it escalated in the last twenty years.

This clothes tampering happens to nearly all victims.

I wish the perpetrators would not have torn the quilts I made later on in life.