When I had wealth, I knew a lot of people in my personal circle of influence that put profit over people and health. Especially, my wealthy friends. I know how they made their bloody ends in a cut-throat and heart-out operating room we call the corporate-bizzy-show. Surely, those kinds of busy-bodies loom in government that you don’t know. Can you see them with ears bent, gathering in the back rooms of big pharma and corrupted healthcare, with back slaps that harm a human body wrapped in the red tape scare tactics to program one to take a pill for a symptom while leaving the villainous origins to kill, intact. A flat-line to fact: The origin story of this con, that the masses aren’t in on. Too busy paying bills, rather than paying attention. Or, too busy making other plans to notice. This conflated with government pay for politicians. The paradox of little wages netting big benefits when these faux sages on public stages get into private beds with rogue finance and underhanded soft ball leagues in third world countries with big bully coke balls dangling from the tails of every Piper-Saratoga’s empennage. Snow falls past Mena trails to Macdill, with Rocky Mountain oysters castrated at the will of a rogue CIA entourage footing the bill by handing out flight pay for those sheep-dipped green berets (like The Rosebud Thief-18E/D) who slipped into the tight lipped mirage of Bush-Bishop-Booth-Buffet-(both Jimmy and Warren)-Barry Seal-Gene Tatum-Curtis Lake-Pablo Escobar’s Pegasus dressage in drug distribution. A tongue twist in my drug running CIA barrage slipped in with a tongue kiss to Porter Goss for taking the highest payoff to NOT see an ‘American Made’ flying horse of Bolivian Grade. (Of course, unknown to my TPS target: Evo Morales, in my time spent with Faust, where I sold my soul, housed in Intel work and a quirk for a "Need To Know," and was in the ultimate pillow fight club as I quietly stole President Evo’s bony Rosebud, as I now break the only rule of Pillow-Fight-Club.) A high-flying equine above the night skyline with white lines dubbed as contrails. The Keyser Soze of the CIA’s usual suspects that entails the hidden effects of Operation Pegasus with its disappearing special FX, after a Mongoose was let loose on a bald eagle with a full head of hair in the knolly air above, (next to a field of Love) in remote-viewed Files of a mind blown and misted pink by the pre-PP&C unknowns that think trials of profit over people are acceptable with innocent verdicts and guilty smiles, casting sticks and stones at all the sheeple corralled by thin televised tricks of Mockingbird politics and Commission’s stuck in place with thinner elephant sticks and stones that skip and leave ripples, that echo "hidden agenda" in dissonant tones, with viewers oblivious in their sheltered coops and homes of the successful American coup and mob troops with a CIA operational name called: Catcher in the Rye/OSWALD, who happened to take the blame, as Op Mongoose gave a guy like Woody’s Pop a Top Secret Cool Hand-Handle: ‘Charlie Harper’ name, to cover the Nightmare on Elm with a blast of 2 and a half men fame, played in misdirection by three-stoogey hobohemians, with the aid of government credentials made "legit" in a rush, if God (in this case, GHW Bush) forbid, the target (JFK) did get out of range of his snipers’ (plural) scopes. This option came with very high hopes of acceptable collateral damage. The count was in the 9/11’s. Knowing that amount of numerology puts you at a disadvantage in the world of shadow and 007’s. A fate, I obviated by playing dumb, unlike my Obi-Wan: Pat Price. A remote viewed price for honesty, he paid with his life, as STARGATE remote viewer #001 cued a spotlight on the hidden show of intelligence breaking bad, financing their off-planet tech that blocks a human’s sixth sense with a spec of fecal dust, Shawshanked within the shit storm of our DNA, that imprisons us in our innocence and our ignorance, that is infinite like an inmate finding God in cliché, trying to define the eternal in a finite way, while Coke is in the air, financing the spyware of the coup’s playbook. The Rosebud Thief says have a look: The CIA use to sell drugs. They still do, but they used to, too. RIP. Mitch the Spook. The CIA couldn’t have that kooky kind of glasnost transparency from a psychic spy who remote viewed in honesty and was no lie…the GOAT at staring at goats. (Until Black Icarus footnotes moon-walking backwards through a Starry Night sky!) It took three months till the dressage of Pegasus was ‘Price’d’ out with a pas de deux of doping violations and Olympian demands to be disqualified. The CIA took matters into their own hands by delegating the hit, in a secret deal with Russia to hand pick the geo-polyamorous hitter and robbed Americans of our greatest intelligence asset. The Russian mob guy that took him out was a construction worker with Hoffa-like clout, not paid in mere ruble and kopek, but future presidential pay and a promise kept to his bankster-handlers to this day, of Belavezha on his lips like Rosebud. The USSR lost to yesterday and a secret club of global elites. Cue the Beatles. As the Rosebud Thief introduces several cute-meets. Hips shake like heads like Shakira in grief. All Intel remote viewed and stolen by the Rosebud thief and cued in her nightly Black Icarus trips of astral carpe nochtem. And the astral carpe diem to see ‘em seize the day…Have a look into the PP&C musical and meet Lila Ċepa’s Cool Hand Luke. A handle on a Newman to meet the day. A meet-cute in a Prison-Caddyshack pool with a bloody Baby Ruth floating in the final stool, waiting to be flushed away. Flushed away with the Tarot’s fool and the cool, hidden follies of his/her cinematic play, breaking the golden rule of pillow fight club under a silent silver-screened moon. Knowing there is no pillow. There is no spoon. The matrix holds you NEO. The anagram of the ONE that will see you soon. Until then, may as well have a dance. May as well sing a tune. Places everyone! And CUE the FEAR. Swoon? Or keep your Cue?

Shakespeare reincarnated here.

Not the bubble headed buffoon swept up in Milli-Vanilli-lies but the few concealed poets kept as secret spies and loyal subjects to the Great Instauration of virtue and myths, replacing religion’s dogma, temper tantrums and fits. This is our new Folio filled with Falstaffs, Othellos and nitwits humming the same bars of vice with a bit more practice as followers of Christ and others instead of themselves. (The Teleology of life.) A New Testament to their holy writ of only what others can sacrifice, as humans are too busy making other plans of clever and wit that are far from nice and even farther from the Great Spirit of the Greater Musical full of Shawshank shit and a deeper sense, (knee deep in it) where we find the ironic scents of song and dance…of the innocents.

Places everyone! And, Action! Until the Big, Fat, Black Lady/Lila Cepa Winyan Sapa sings with Hapa Hendrix and Curtis Lake as Yuwipi/Kahuna/Shaman: CLYKS T.H.E. Pen hidden in the wings, masked like a villainous Brancusi bird, the abstract flights of Black Icarus heard in The Halo/Heyoka effects of a pen's word...in a world of shadow kings, shape-shifting beyond human belief. A glimpse stolen by the Rosebud Thief, in memoir and musical leitmotif, behind bars of silent sound, you smell the choco-covered strawberry stars of the Lakota's sacred clown in a three ring circus. PP&C is full of us and our pail-full of red confetti, upturned and falling down, now ready for a well-earned ticker-tape parade. Each drop, placed perfectly on the page in the blood rain. Squinting through all the horror, laughing through all the pain. Shades of red for the intrepid explorer, congealing in prison ink stains on the (already yellow-wet) Lebowski carpet, feeling good. Cue Nina Simone. Making orange the new black in our fruity hood called the Strawberry Thunderdome. Would you feel good? We're feeling right at home. Join us for a cuppa' tea or pejuta sapa. Sincerely, Lila Cepa Winyan Sapa/Hapa Hendrix, AKA C. Lake, the reverse apple, before estrogen intake and the literary scalpel.