Thought I would post a snippet of the story, since it is now 35 pages and that's just too long to put the whole thing up here. Warning:this story has the potential to be very disturbing, especially to people who may have experienced this sort of thing. So if you are upset by violence(I tried my best not to be TOO graphic ), best to move on to another thread.
Over the course of the past decade, I have known many people who have suffered as a result of their involvement in brainwashing programs very similar to those witnessed by Frank Olson. Nothing out of the ordinary ever happened as a result of these acquaintances until I met Bobby. I have to admit, with a certain amount of embarrassment, that when he first told me about his family and their involvement with organized ritual abuse I suspected him to be a compulsive liar. He told me that his family was descended from William Randolph Hearst and had been involved in cult activities for decades. Bobby said that they were the richest black family in all of Sonoma County and owned properties all across the country. Although he was homeless and his story seemed unlikely, I tried to remain open minded, sine it was apparent that he had acquired a great deal of education.
When Bobby was a teenager his family tried to recruit him into a San Francisco cult that performed serial killings on white people. His initiation into the cult involved murdering three white babies. When he learned what he was being asked to do, Bobby escaped his family and came to the city. This particular detail is what caused me to dismiss the story as a paranoid fantasy. Years later I discovered a newspaper article that confirmed the existence of Bobby's cult. The Zebra Killers were a black supremacist group that was responsible for the deaths of at least 16 white people between 1973 and 1974. A researcher named Alex Constantine linked the cult to the CIA, who even sent some of their agents out in blackface in an attempt to disrupt the civil rights movement and initiate a race war. Bobby had also told me that his family had ties to the Klu Klux Klan, as well as the upper levels of Bay Area politics and business. As a child he was even introduced to members of the Klan's hierarchy. He believed that a network of individuals involved with his family were stalking him in an effort to get him to rejoin the cult. Bobby said that he had received death threats because he threatened to reveal their secrets.
Although I was skeptical of many of his claims, I sometimes brought him over to stay at Fritz's apartment on Linda Street. Bobby believed that a network of cultists had been responsible for the murders of homeless prostitutes throughout the city. This is when I began to take him seriously, since I had been hearing about these murders for years. One of my best friends had even found a bag full of fingers in Golden Gate Park. When I was staying in the park, I often heard screams in the middle of the night, and once awoke to discover that I had wrapped myself in a blanket that was splattered with blood. Mixed in with the blankets were some women's clothes and a couple of used condoms. Since that particular spot was a place where I had frequently camped with Melony, when I arrived there I had believed the blanket to be hers. Another guy I knew, a speed dealer named David, told me that he used to sell speed to a group of professional gay men who had a "gentlemen's club" that participated in the ritual sacrifice of homeless prostitutes. At one point, David had even found a human arm in their trash can.
A few months after this I ran into Angelica, a tranny whore I have known for years, at a leather bar off of Market Street. Without me repeating David's story, she told me she had witnessed a group of gay businessmen ritually sacrifice a female prostitute in the basement of another gay bar. One of the things I have always had a hard time with about Angelica is that she has serious racism issues and is not afraid to vocalize them in as offensive of a manner as possible. Once I was on a bus with her going through the Bay View and she started screaming at all the black people and calling them niggers. I think the only reason we weren't seriously injured is that she looked completely unstable and capable of violence. Angelica told me that the group of gay men involved with the murders also had ties with the Aryan Nation. She had mixed feelings about the whole venture, especially when I asked her for an extended interview. Eventually Angelica decided against revealing more information, since she had been raised by the Aryan Nation and couldn't betray their loyalties.
After Bobby put some of these pieces together for me, I began asking questions of many more people. It was around this time that I first experienced what I believe to be surveillance by intelligence agencies. At the apartment on Linda Street, I checked my voicemail and heard dozens of messages containing strange electronic noises like blips and beeps. Bobby claimed that the calls were typical of the sorts of harassment he had been receiving from his family. But my friends told me to stop being paranoid--the calls probably came from a mechanized telemarketer. At the same time, someone had been going through the trash every night and scattering the contents across the sidewalk. I had a notebook that I had been writing this story in, and when I moved out of the apartment, I ripped out the most important pages and stupidly threw the rest of the notebook away. That night someone methodically went through my notebook, ripped out every page, crumpled them each into a ball and left the pages scattered across the sidewalk. I should also mention that not one trash bag on our entire street was ripped into besides ours. Still, any one of these incidents could easily be interpreted as an unsettling coincidence.
One of my favorite places to go that winter was the UCSF medical library, because unlike the public library, it was quiet and I could stay on the internet for as long as I wanted. One day I brought Bobby there with me and after spending a few hours reading, we went outside to get some fresh air. I found a spot not far from the library on a street empty of traffic where we sat down on the sidewalk to talk. We weren't there for more than twenty minutes before an expensive black car rounded the corner, slowly rolled down the street and drove diagonally towards us over the curb before stopping a few inches away from our feet. Inside the driver's seat was a white man in a black suit and black sunglasses who stared at us without expression. Without exchanging a word, we got to our feet and walked down the street and away from the black car. When I told acquaintances of mine that I knew from the (entirely different) world of progressive politics, I could see by the look on their faces that they thought I had finally lost it.