Child Pornography and Sex Trafficking
These pictures tell a story about me, and it ain't pretty. The first begins a photo session, about which I am less than thrilled. I know what is coming next. I loose every last thread of my human dignity. And for some reason, my dignity was important to me. The second photo is small and fussy, because it is just a test print. The pictures are moving in a direction not fit for public consumption. But if I close my eyes I remember just a peek or two. A male model, from the William Mortensen Studio in Laguna Beach, California, has joined my side of the camera, under the blazing hot lights. We form a picture perfect couple, me with my fair Nordic looks, him with his Mediterranean chiseled features and dark hair; me five years old, him twenty-two. Now the photos get arty as body parts meet body parts in erotica. (Such as the tip of my tongue meets his erect penis.) So much child pornography, we compete for our share of a very crowded market. It's good practice for me, as I am about to move into the even more demanding arena of child sex trafficking and black mail. The Nazis that controlled my life had big plans for me. I was about to meet the rich and famous.
Please or You Die
My sex training (Beta Programming) began in Manhattan Beach, California in 1945, a time and a community rich with Nazis, some still with thick German accents, and Mafia. It was also the heart of the aeronautical and soon to be aerospace industry. Fresh from the war, now on to the moon.
What is Beta Programming? If you look carefully at the photo below you will see the results. I was so programmed to PLEASE at this point in my life that I didn't even have to think about it. Never mind that it might be inappropriate or embarrassing to my caretakers at the time. It was my life! I would sit on the lap and hug the dirty old man even if he were made of clay. The dirty old man with an empty lap was the trigger. As I remember this one smelled of old cigarette butts.
Everyone else in the photo, my aunt, my mother and my sister, could stand up respectably and say cheese, then later give me dirty looks for my behavior. But the programming was stronger than any whisper behind my back or frown to my face. I had worked hard on this programming and so had my handler. There was little that I did that wasn't sexual. And I did it without the slightest thought. I was Salome and the seven veils. Without my sexuality, I had no identity at all. Beta programming, in my case, wasn't even a little bit subtle. Or maybe I just excelled at my studies. Although in the photo I really don't look too happy, but the behavior was bigger than me, with my true feelings just a flicker in my eyes.
How did they make my metamorphosis, from child to sex goddess? Well to start with, it took black boots on my chest holding me firmly down with no room to breath. “Please or you die!” I could hear the Black Boots say. I was not alone, other little girls were present. At one end of the room was a little boy who began to cry and complain. They “killed” him with a bayonet on the end of a rifle. (Usually I think I can tell, but in this case I don’t know if it was hoaxed or real.) This warning began my education. I'm not really sure if I wanted to live, but I was afraid of dying, so I learned to Please! Now that I knew the consequences for non-compliance, the next stage of my education used more honey.
I called her Mrs. Hildebrand. She was my care-taker for most of the week and she worked at the same school as my mother. Between kindergarten and second grade I lived part-time at her house. When I think of her it triggers memories that make my genitals hurt, giving clues to our activities. I do have some fond memories though as I was rewarded for good sexual behavior with sugar and kindness and praise. She would teach me German fairy tales, and when we did Little Red Riding Hood she let me be the wolf as a special treat (not Little Red, but the wolf). She would dress me in nice clothes for the daytime, even paint my nails with red polish, then put me to bed in a pink sexy nightgown at night. She worked my hair into two perfectly done French braids, making me look like an artist's model. Sometimes she let me play in her garden. The real techniques used to Beta Program me are tucked in my brain, deep in the fuzz, but it must have been a combination of reward and punishment, good cop - bad cop, not really anything too clever, because I was unable to turn it off. I was inappropriately sexy all the time, and because it didn't stick. When I was able, I got rid of the programming and I got rid of them.
I remember them as people, human beings, human beings at their worst, but human beings none-the-less. It was important for me to understand them. My life might depend on it. So I watched them, to the point of even feeling what I assumed they felt, their angst. And they felt angst, desire, ambition and fear. They were a part of history, creators of a brave new world. A world in which they would have total control --- and be safe at last! The New World Order is, after all, a utopia, where the very few create a life without strife or tribulation, based on a pyramid of empty souls. The trick was to claw your way to the top, where the fresh air was. The more desperate you were, the more desperate the measures. Life becomes the exact opposite of bliss.
One can't paint an accurate picture of one's life unless one has all the memory pieces. When parts are repressed, one does not see the whole. If the repression is large, a life-time is spend filling in, adding, and re-arranging one's history as each new bit of information from flashbacks or memories must be interpreted and fit in. That interpretation is based on what one already knows, or what one thinks one knows. In the time-line of false to real, statistics plays a role. If one person remembers something that no one else remembers, it can easily be judged as false. But, if five remember, then ten, the memory must move down the scale toward real. I state this because one of the childhood lovers I remember was Ronald Reagan, another was Richard P. Feynman. I state these memories, not as an accusation, but only as one person's recollection. To become a part of the historical record, it must be accompanied by the memories of many other survivors. But, unlike the memories of others, that include the rich and powerful, my memories are sad. Sad for me and sad for them.
I met them around 1950 at a mansion in Pasadena, California (home of Cal Tech, JPL and the Pasadena Playhouse, not to mention the O.T.O.) My job was as a part of the entertainment to provide sexual pleasure in a cute, novel way, as a child under ten. The room that I worked was full of men the Nazis had their eye on, men of potential power and influence. Compromise them, take a photo and they are in, a part of the "Good Ol' Boys" club. Evidence of sex with a pre-pubescent child is a powerful blackmail tool for their future control. Never mind that they might be drunk or drugged or both. The room that I worked was not full of pedophiles, making my job all the harder. As I worked my way around the sex ring, I developed my future goals, as all children do. It was to be fetching, charming, intelligent, and beautiful, so that when Prince Charming saw me, across a semen filled room, I would be rescued. Was this love partner Prince Charming, or maybe that one? I waited, was deserted, abandoned, and I waited again. If Prince Charming had better things to do than rescue me, then I wanted to do those things too. So I became excited about what went on in the room along with the men, and it wasn't sex. I remember the real excitement was in the conversation about science or politics. I was a part of those planning history. We were going to the moon!
Were there photos of Feynman or Reagan taken in compromising positions with children? It would appear. From his biography, just round 1950, Ronald Reagan suddenly changed his politics and moved in a new direction toward a Brave New World. Feynman went on to a distinguished career, even winning a Nobel prize for his contributions to Nazi Physics. It is highly likely that the Pasadena Mansion was the home of the famed rocket scientist Jack Parsons. I also remember other famous guests such as John Wayne, Howard Hughes and my vote for the anti-Christ, Edward Teller (father of the Hydrogen Bomb and Chemtrails) . There appears to be some historical physical evidence for the slime that has leaked from my subconscious mind about my notorious past. This activity also peaked the interest of the FBI.
More Freedom of Information Documents available include: Jack Parsons ; John Wayne.
Mrs. Hildebrand and the Greys
Becoming grey is a fairly simple matter, if you happen to be about five or six years old and female. Just take off your clothes, put a nylon stocking over your head, covering you hair making your head look bigger and bald. Your mouth disappears into a slit, your ears into just flat holes on the side of your head and your nose becomes two nostrils instead. Now just add two almond shaped goggle lenses over your eyes, dust yourself with white powder and you're ready to go. It helps for the effect to add a Nazi or two in full military uniform. Other props such as alien space ships can be added as needed.
One of the recovered memories of Mrs. Hildebrand and her friends was when I was so transformed from Homo sapien to grey space alien. I remember I was in a large room full of pre-pubescent girls just like me. We were all naked and powdered white, giving our cold bodies a slightly sweet fragrance. I felt the tight stocking on my head making it hard to breath. I looked out on the room through what felt like dark goggles, making it hard to see. The other children were running around out of control. I was holding Mrs. Hildebrand's hand with one hand and my genitals with the other. I felt fear as I was disciplined into a line. A tall handsome man came into the room wearing a fancy light tan military uniform. I especially noticed the whip in his hand and the flair of his pants at the hips because that was my eye level view of him. He spoke German. The other little grey girls and I marched into a smoke filled room. I could see something burning at its center (probably Belladonna). I began to feel doped. Next we were led single file into an enclosure that rocked slightly beneath our feet. We all lined the sides and watched, feeling cold, gasping to breath and struggling to see. We watched, the silent audience to the show taking place only a few feet away. I could see the fear on the participant’s faces. I could feel the fear in the room, what little there was left of me to feel. The other participants this time were the ones being terrorized and by me.
Wipe off the powder, dress the child, role up the stockings, fold up the goggles and zero evidence remains. The costume they used didn’t need to be perfect because the level of fear in the participant’s mind would erase details. And if everyone were drugged, even more details would go. The very simplicity of the costume made me laugh. How like them it was. No wonder I was kept so thin as a child. A space alien with baby fat just wouldn’t do. A child’s genitals wouldn’t do either, so they only used girls. Their goal must have been to give the grey a more adult and therefore sinister appearance. A wispy grey humanoid with a head too large for its body that was I. Add a few blips and lights and special effects, throw in some drugs, and you could create a whole space alien invasion. How terrifying it must have been, terrifying enough to repress the memory. But I couldn’t recall a recovered memory of space aliens ever being called false by the false memory advocates. I guessed they considered those recovered memories real. The fact that the grey had no clothes was a signature of the cult's control agenda. A naked child is a cold child who probably has disassociated into a more docile mode. The cult knew that they could better control their members by simply removing their clothes, nothing too sophisticated really. (Higher members might get a black robe to wear. I never got that high, so I was either naked or in a filmy see-through white garment.)
When I was a child we drove in a car to the desert in the dead of night frequently. On one occasion, I remember looking up at the night sky and seeing a large, shinny round object with flashing colored lights. It looked like an impressive UFO prop. They stored the aircraft in a hanger in the middle of almost absolute nowhere. The aircraft could hover and move in a vertical direction. My feeling was it was a dressed-up helicopter, which was a German specialty from World War II. From the book by Richard Hall, NICAP, The UFO Evidence: “At Muroc Army Air Field (now Edwards AFB) and adjacent Rogers Dry Lake, scientists and engineers test and develop the latest aircraft, including secret projects. All thoroughly familiar with anything that flies, the base technical personnel had no explanation for the UFOs which maneuvered over the area July 8, 1947. Twice that morning, disc-shaped objects were observed cavorting overhead. Then about 11:50 AM, a crew of technicians at Rogers saw a round white, apparently metallic object descending, moving west northwest against the wind. They observed thick projections on top which crossed each other at intervals, suggesting either rotation or oscillation. In their official report they stated: ‘It was man-made, as evidenced by the outline and functional appearance.’”
According to the reports on “The Muroc Army Air Field Incidents” two similar spherical or disc-like UfOs were spotted on July 8, 1947. Little did they know that the greys that went with the spacecraft were being groomed not far away, possibly at the military installation at China Lake. Taken from the 50th anniversary edition of The Rocketeer, China Lake’s in-house newspaper, 4 Nov. 1993, “In 1943, adequate facilities were needed for test and evaluation of rockets being developed for the Navy by the California Institute of Technology (CalTech); at the same time, the Navy also needed a new proving ground for all aviation ordnance. The Naval Ordnance Test Station (NOTS) was established in response to those needs in November 1943, forming the foundations of NWC.” And the connection is made; the physicists at CalTech who are associated with Aleister Crowley’s Thelema, sexual and ritual abuse of children, mind control and the military, rockets, and UFOs. Put it all together in a cauldron, add eye of newt, toe of frog, give it a stir with a witch’s broomstick and it boils and bubbles up New World Order. We now understand Ronald Reagan's Alien Invasion reference. He and Nancy may have been in on the planning.
I don’t know how many times they used me as a grey. I was in the desert a lot with the Nazis. The China Lake area seems right. My gut feeling is that mostly we hoaxed other cult members, and it was a very secret project. My parents were never high enough members to know any of the things the Nazis and the Military were doing. I remember telling my father that we were going to the moon. He laughed and asked how would we get back.
In many ways the grey was a new age replacement for Satan. He was a scientific Satan. A Satan for atheists. The greys did the same things the old Satan did. Satan put rocks in my orifices to watch me. The greys used implants to spy and read minds besides. Satan conducts gang rapes to produce a baby for Satan, maybe even a Satan-human hybrid. Greys sexually probed and produce alien-human hybrids. Nothing new under the sun, we just advance by making the old better.
In one memory at the Pasadena Mansion, Jack Parsons place (the witches house) I was asleep in the back seat of a car when I am woken by a loud bang on the window. I get out of the car and with the driver (possibly Mrs. Hildebrand’s Nazi husband or one of her Nazi friends.) walk up to the side of the house. We walk into the Kitchen and there are lots of scantily clad people wandering around. A mafia type, fully clothed in an expensive suit, greets us. What this memory tells me is that Jack Parsons was NOT running the show. No bad memories are connected with his photo.
According to John Carter, in his book “Sex and Rockets - The Occult World of Jack Parsons” in 1952 Jack was blown to bits in his new residence just down the street from the mansion. In years previous he had begun to have second thoughts and his fortunes began to decline. My feeling is that he was chosen to be the example of what happens when one departs from blind obedience to those above, and of course dead people rarely talk. Jack Parsons' place is important because the major players in the UFO hoax all seemed to have at one time or another met there.
In another recovered memory of John Whiteside Parsons. I’m in a bedroom of the Pasadena Mansion with a pretty red-haired young woman who is very sensual and smells of perfume. She seems to be showing me the ropes (such as rubbing her hand across her genitals then waving her fingers near the nose of her partner to smell the pheromones.) I look around the room and see a dark dresser with glass on top, covered with bottles of potions. Jack comes in and decides that I do not have to go in with the guests in the other room if I don’t want to. Jack and the woman (probably Cameron) playfully hide me in amongst all the coats and clothing of the guests. The thought goes through my mind; you don’t understand I have to do as I am told. I wait until they are gone, so that I do not hurt their feelings that they are helping me. I slip out of the bedroom and do what I am ordered to do.
Sometimes I remember the men talking and getting excited about science and stuff. I would listen and get excited too. And sometimes the meetings were very formal such as in the next recovered memory. I am in a large room. At one end is an altar with a fat white candle that is burning, a big, black Bible and a chalice. I hear a bell ring. It is placed on the altar. A beautiful nude woman (probably Cameron) enters the room and lies down on the altar. A tall man (probably Jack) in a red satin cape walks into the room and crosses it to the altar. A sexual encounter begins. In the audience are lots of nude guests and many children wearing only a long white veil held to the head by a ring of flowers. The adults become sexually stimulated by the ceremony and they begin partnering with the children and each other in an orgy. The room is brightly lit; therefore the real Satan in charge, some Nazi, is filming this entire scene.
The Cultists love drama and they seriously work to make their rituals reach a perfection of details. Who would not be interested in attending one of their very secret meetings, especially with the promise of enlightenment and sex? After all, everyone is an adult and they do have free will, well almost everyone. The ceremonies at Jack’s place were special. They were orchestrated to bring the novice on board. They were entertaining and might possibly bring secret wisdom. No animal was ever hurt as that might cause a guest or two to leave. The children were introduced subtly, after all children like sex and in a free society should be allowed to participate. But when the film was developed it showed a very different picture, that of grown men doing devil worship and raping children. Gotcha!! My guess is the first death these guests encountered was Jack’s. After that the real brainwashing could begin.
From what I remember and have read, two personality traits of Jack Parsons led to his downfall with the cult. He did not like authority figures, which meant he was not inclined to take orders, and he was an idealist, in his case a lethal combination. He sincerely wanted to make a contribution to society, to leave his mark, a desire held by many men of science. He seemed little concerned with money, power and position, the traits held in the very highest esteem with many of the other cultists at the mansion. It was and probably still is a common practice of the Nazis to make an example of one group member, so that all the rest are sure to fall in line. Jack Parsons became the natural choice. His downfall was likely orchestrated and his death was likely a murder. His mother, who died only hours later, was probably “suicided”. It is possible that Cameron survived because she was a Beta sex slave (like me) and they controlled her anyway.
When I look at Jack’s photo today I am reminded of my brother, who as a child liked to make rockets and shoot them off at the neighbors’ houses. I would run and retrieve the rocket so that it did not start a fire. I feel I developed my deep and lasting love of science in the most heinous of places; the Pasadena Mansion and the Mojave Desert, both inspired by a few rogue idealists trapped in the cult. If I return to the place in my mind, the room I was in buzzed with excitement about electromagnetic radiation and the wave properties of matter. A photon moving in a circle was postulated to explain the particle and how it all related to space. They were on the cutting edge, the solution to the mystery of the Universe only an idea away. I found it all very logical and with wide eyes and ears tuned in to what was being said, I began my own thoughts on the matter. As an adult I would sometimes return to my escape as a child and think about science. I even read science journals before going to bed to put me to sleep. One day I decided to see what that photon moving in a circle at the speed of light would look like if I added high speed motion. Out popped the Lorentz Transformations or Relativity. I learned a little physics to see what else would happen if the particle was a photon moving in a circle and found the hypothesis consistent with the classical rules of physics. If the Nazis had not taken over the field of theoretical physics and ruined it, I wonder what our theories might look like today. It appears that agendas and science don't mix. See "Nazi Physics versus Newton and Einstein" to view my thoughts on the matter.
Freedom of Information Documents available include: Roswell ; Project Blue Book.
Descriptions of grey aliens; beneath the illusion a ritually abused child.
China Lake becomes a major programming center - taken from "The Illuminati Formula Used to Create an Undetectable Total Mind Controlled Slave" by Cisco Wheeler and Fritz Springmeier.
Jack Parsons, L. Ron Hubbard, Anton LaVey and the Nazi connection.
Mrs. Hildebrand's Christmas Celebration
Not far from where I lived in Manhattan Beach was Mrs. Hildebrand's church. She was undoubtedly a religious person. I still have in my possession a small book of Christmas Carols with her name signed on the inside cover wishing me "Merry Christmas". One of my recovered memories was of a Christmas celebration at her church. The memory began with me feeling great joy. It was Christmas and they were going to let me be an angel. I could feel the excitement as they dressed me up in a beautiful white gown with big white wire wings. I joyously joined other children who were also dressed up as angels. We all ran around the church among the many strangers. Then I heard a baby crying. I saw a baby boy in a manger. Suddenly my mind switched to flashes of knives dripping in blood. The angels started to run wild in desperation. Someone killed baby Jesus! An adult dressed as the devil appeared and was triumphant. Even though it was fuzzy and I couldn't quite look, I knew what I saw was a real murder. I was very used to the phony kind, having played the role so many times. I came away from the memory wondering what were these people thinking? The only explanation I could find was that they had all been brainwashed into some kind of cruel insanity. The memory was very traumatizing. It took me a long time to get over, and produced many calls to the police and trips to church to light candles.
Mrs. Hildebrand's church did quite a few unorthodox celebrations. In another recovered memory, my parents leave me off at the door in the dark of night. Inside is a room with many books on shelves. I felt myself in the room looking up at the rows of books while many people were walking around behind me. Suddenly the memory changed places. I felt myself being carried into the large main area inside. The room had lots of exposed wood as part of it's architecture, and even the floors were wooden. The place had a familiar smell and look about it. I was dressed only in a filmy white gown. They placed me on a large wooden table, which served as their altar, and I was told to dance seductively. I did. Mirrors were used to expose my genitals. A man rubbed his erect penis against my genitals and the ceremony concluded by my performing oral sex on the man.
With these recovered memories I felt Mrs. Hildebrand's church was due for a visit. So one day I got up the nerve and headed down the street. Not a soul in sight, the church was locked up tight. A note by the door informed that the church would be open the following evening for prayer meetings. I looked through the glass doors at its main entrance and felt I had definitely been inside. I went home determined to return the following evening. I had no more than entered my house when I began getting flashbacks. I saw the church surrounded by fields of wild grass. Now I was sure it was the place of my childhood memories. The houses, surrounding the church now, had not yet been built when I had last gone through its doors. The next day, I headed for the church. I went up to the door and pulled. It was open. With my heart in my throat, I walked in. The minister came immediately to greet me, and then with a smile on his face he began showing me around. I asked about the church and was told it was forty-nine years old. I looked at the interior and got the distinct feeling little had changed. It had a unique architecture that struck me as almost medieval, with old heavy beams of wood dominating the floors, the walls and the ceiling. We walked past the pews to the front where the minister stood to give sermons. A large table caught my eye. It was awkwardly located to the one side of the pulpit and definitely looked like it didn’t belong there. The familiar looking piece of furniture was very heavy, old and elaborately carved on the sides. It was large enough for a child to dance on or a woman to lie on. I looked away from the table and saw a room full of gold robes with red hoods hanging on hangers. The colors were garish and ugly. The entire room smelled like my childhood memories of my parent’s friends. I felt creepy and nervous as we walked to the other end of the church. The prayer room looked more like a small library. It was separated from the main area by a bookcase full of books. To a child it would have appeared much larger. The minister began to point out all the church’s photographic equipment. He showed me the strobe lights, which lined the prayer room, and then proudly told how more and better photographic equipment was on order. As I looked at the cameras all around me, all I could think about was child pornography. I turned to see a heavyset man who had just arrived for the prayer meeting. He was dressed in dark clothing including a black T-shirt. He looked more like he belonged in a motorcycle gang than in a church. I looked at the man then at the minister. I thanked the minister for his time. He handed me a book and some literature about the church. I smiled, he smiled and I quickly went back out the door. It was the church of my childhood memory no question about it. I spent the rest of the evening reading the church literature. Most of it focused on Satan and Armageddon. The literature alone was enough to give one nightmares.
Joseph Mengele Sightings
I remember Mrs. Hildebrand's friend, who I later discovered looked exactly like Joseph Mengele, right down to the space between his front teeth. I believe they were one and the same. I met him around 1950. I think I was ten years old, so it may have been 1951or 1952. I remember when he entered a room all eyes focused in his direction; his neediness, desperation, giving rise to sadistic urges to pinch or hold so hard it hurt, he grabbed your attention. His self importance dwarfed everyone else that was present. He was on a mission to save mankind with his work, and no one could accomplish this but him. He was there to correct the mistakes of others. And I was one of the mistakes. I had not been properly Alpha Programmed, which is the cults general program to create a follower that would kill or die for the cause. I didn't like knives and would do neither. Before he came to town, no one else seemed to care. I was, after all, Beta Programmed. It just went to prove how important he was, and that others could not be trusted.
I remember Mrs. Hildebrand's friend handing me a knife. He wanted me to use it to kill a chicken. I was very agitated about the use of a knife. I had refused to cut up my doll, five years earlier, and it was a stand I was not going to back down on. After all, I had gotten away with it then. An intense psychological struggle began, his will verses mine. He grabbed at my arms painfully, then the chicken, white feathers flapping wildly, he strangled the chicken with his bare hands. We moved on to his next task. I was ordered to cut myself. I was not going to cut myself! Why should I become one of them? I thought I would pass out at the very thought of cutting myself. I felt immobilized, frozen. Perhaps it was time to leave the body. It's hard to program someone when they keep passing out, leaving the body behind. It was my strategy. If I was not present what could they do?
Having crossed Mrs. Hildebrand's friend, they were now mad at me. No bad deed goes unpunished. My waist length hair was ordered cut and all my meager possessions removed. Isn't that what they did at Auschwitz? You may be sure I felt steps from the ovens. And I was well aware of who I was dealing with, having seen many of the post war pictures of the Holocaust. The photo is of my hair which is over 50 years old. I kept it with my important papers. That's how traumatized I was by the emotion under which it was cut. My life changed. No longer did I rub noses with the rich and powerful. I was demoted to breeder under the tutelage of my parents and their coven. What a fall from grace. I no longer worked the room. Now the room worked me, as I was regularly gang raped. But wait! Maybe it wasn't such a change after all. I had few possessions before and eventually my hair did grow back. And being raped by one stranger isn't that much different from another. The Nazis were gone; and the members of my parent's coven were nicer.
The problem with the cult trying to program me was that for the first four years of my life they had created a "street child". "Street children" soon learn that to survive they must trust no one but themselves. "Street children" are suspect of anything and everything around them. "Street children" are hyper vigilant. "Street children" do not get attached to or trust anyone including the programmer. Any suggestion, during hypnosis is suspect. To "street children" if you can’t touch it, see it, hear it, it isn’t real. As a "street child" you learn to live by your wits and by logic. If it isn’t logical, it isn’t real. "Street children" have trouble creating a fantasy world from someone else's suggestion. I suspect that the determining factor for programmability is not intelligence, but trust and dependence on caretakers. And in this I was definitely found lacking.
© 2004 by Mauri
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