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David Crayford and the ITC Last Updated: Jan 15, 2018 - 6:46:38 AM

AMERICAN LAWYER ----- David P. Crayford's correcto mundo, again, American boots off Philippines ground and up Neil Pugnose Keenan's terrorist operative as* - PART THREE B
Dec 23, 2016 - 9:09:59 AM

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"I'm frustrated. They came to visit me yesterday, the Pentagon... He told me that they're waiting for me to get this complete so they can get to work themselves. Everybody's waiting on me." 

--- Neil Pugnose Keenan, conning Jean Haines


Could you kill somebody?

What kind of a question was that to ask someone who was exhaling frozen breath at 5:30 on an icy morning? The question stabbed at my brain like a rusty ice pick, as I ran breathlessly into the rainy New England dawn.

Could I kill somebody?

Was the Pope Catholic? Did the Russian Czar have tremendous amounts of gold? Come on, aren't we all ready to kill? Born and bred in America, we are; the penultimate rats packed tightly into a box, and let's see how that experiment works. All Americans have bad attitudes, David P. Crayford says. I'm sure he figures all Americans to be Natural Born Killers as well. He likes Oliver Stone. I know he thinks it's in our national genes to steal from the Global Debt Facility. And to be clueless in life about what's really going on in the world, and how many people have suffered so badly through American inattention and programmed self focus. (KAN DAEK.. its in the American Genetic MIND that americans connect to...
forgive the brief edit.. but I had to "agree" in that sense with the statement and teach a little at the same time)

The fact was, I was ready to kill someone, right at that very moment - I was ready to kill Sam, who was running just ahead of me, but pushing the pace way too fast for my coronary liking.

As we approached Commonwealth, I scanned both directions. I made darn sure I wasn't being followed. I'd been accused of being the 'weak link' in our security apparatus, and Sam even laughed about it. I didn't like being called anybody's 'weak link' at anything. I'd always considered myself to be a strength. But there they were, both Crayford and Sam, reminding me every day that what I do is very dangerous, and that my life is on the line, and that I needed to be really careful with everything I do. 

I told them, I laugh at danger. They laughed at me.

It had been pouring dogs and buckets pretty much all night, but the rain had finally started to ease. The deep puddles I stomped through were now residing. I imagined Pugnose Keenan's fat toad face in the center of each puddle, and me stomping right through it, squashing his sneer-queer-smile. That gave me joy. I thought about the former fat Australian, Stomach Staples Scott, every time I high hurdled a curb, like the leaping gnome that I was. I leaped the curb at Commonwealth, with grace and ease, charging through the red light, and Keith Francis Scott's face, with pride and purpose and imaginary track spikes, and I nearly got run over by a loud honking eighteen wheeler, screaming through the intersection. I hopped over to the other curb and out of harm's way, but the diesel horn eardrum blast had nearly shattered my skull. I couldn't hear for the next three blocks. My ears rang for the next two and a half days.

I needed to focus on the run. I needed to talk with Sam. My world was falling apart now faster than a daytime soap star's marriage, and he was the only one who could make rhyme or reason of what I should do. He was the center 'peace', at the moment, of my violent storm jigsaw puzzle life. He was no more than a couple meters ahead of me now, but he was toying with me on this run. He had been toying with me all morning. He always toys with me. Sam was probably a more natural athlete than I, and he liked to prove it when we jogged. He liked to show it basically any time we did anything that involved any kind of physical activity. He was running hard circles around a slow me, even though I had warned him that an easy jog was probably all that it would take to kill me. That's when he plugged in his earphones, laughed, and took off. We were going to have to talk, that Sam and I. But that would mean I would have to catch him. I needed to catch my breath first. Sam needed to learn to give an old man a break.

The faster Sam ran, and the further behind I became, the more irritated I got. I still hadn't calmed down from the coward Keenan quote I had read this morning. Yeah, right, Pentagon calling. I got your Pentagram right here, you bloated faced Satanist. You've got some egoic nerve, Pugnose. And then that video he released last month, where he looked like a swollen uranium toad, and all he could do was attack the Royal Family, because he had nothing positive to say; and the Royal Families and Nations of the world are the ones who own all the golden wealth that Keenan and the Federal Reserve Central Bank System are trying to steal. Get a life, cream puff. The man has nothing positive to offer humanity, so he just goes on the attack, bad mouthing the Royal Families, the declared enemy to the death of his employer, the Federal Reserve central banking system / U.S. government / alphabet agency / NSA / CIA complex. Hoping to be believed by somebody. Desperately trying to raise money. Keenan seeking relevancy.

Listening to all that bullsh*t first thing this morning gave me indigestion. Made me want to go out and run. It made President Duterte say, f*ck you Keenan, one more time, as if he were running with Sam and I down this tree lined street, middle finger erected for emphasis in one hand, the Republic of the Philippines flag in the other.

I'll just keep writing about Keenan. Painting him into a corner. And running. And working desperately to get in shape, which is better than punching holes in walls and breaking bloody knuckles at 2:26 a.m., which is what Keenan and Scott make me do, to a small degree anyway. That's Keenan and Scott's methodology. They deliberately try to get you frustrated so that eventually you stop worrying them, or worrying about them. As David P. Crayford might say, Shucks, guys, some of us do have more intelligence and self control than one might imagine. Which was why at 4:30 this morning, after watching Keenan's video, after scalding myself with spilled boiling instant coffee, after applying ice to the multiple swollen and red burn areas, and cleaning up the mess, I copied all the documents onto a disk, exchanged final e mails with Sam on when and where to meet, and then I took off running.

The information I found was totally mind blowing. It was all starting to come together for me, all the pieces to the puzzle, but possibly in a bad way. I needed someone to help me take another look. That's why I desperately needed to speak with Sam about the documents I carried under my Celtics sweatshirt. He needed to see everything that I had found.

Paul Collin was the book. He was the one who had been talking to Keenan the whole time while the Chiasso Bond affair was going down. Paul Collin had a ton of information on Keenan. Paul Collin had a ton of information on everybody, it appeared. Even some people whom I believed I knew and I could trust. 

I wondered what information Paul Collin might have had on me.


Chiasso was an important event. But, as David P. Crayford would say, it was an isolated event. If you don't know what all else is going on around it, it's easy to lose it's significance, or insignificance, in the overall plan, or scheme of things. In order of sequential events, Chiasso did lead to Wilcock, which led to Fulford, which led to Keenan. But that's not what Chiasso was all about.

There was actually much more going on around it, hidden in secrecy between the cracks, and people were paying attention to that as well. Untold volumes of international data spanning many continents was being assimilated. Many named and unnamed players were being officially documented and privately documented within one man's personal database of files. 

This private database of files covered many operational transactions, some going back as far as 2004, which then lead up to the 2009 Chiasso Bond incident, and they were all tied together. Many individuals and events were all interlocked and intertwined. The information all shed light upon what was occurring in the background of Chiasso. It all shed light on Keenan's direct involvement with the attempted theft of $134.5 billion U.S. dollars worth of stolen Federal Reserve Bonds. David P. Crayford has well documented this in his writings. Paul Collin had it all posted on his Website at Unwanted Publicity Intelligence. But most people never heard about this, Paul Collin, or Unwanted Publicity Intelligence.

Back in 2009, Collin was at the height of his communications with Keenan. So were other U.S. intelligence agents, like the ones working for the U.S. Department of Homeland Security (DHS), Immigration and Customs Enforcement (ICE), Office of Special Investigations (OSI), for Homeland Security Intelligence (HSI), who were busy tasking cases involving their main vein, the United States Federal Reserve Bank, Branch Office (Los Angeles, California, USA), as a pretext to their intelligence gathering and protection provided to certain key NOC international operatives. They had been doing this for many years. This was a convenient relationship specifically engineered for nefarious international purposes with tremendous financial gains to be had for all parties involved. This American intelligence gathering apparatus protected operatives like Neil Keenan.

At some point, someone at DHS caught wind of what Collin was doing with his Website. That's when Collin's handler, DHS ICE OSI Special Agent Nicholas Jones, (aka) Nick Jones, contacted Collin via e mail notification, notifying him that his Website was "unintentionally interfering with a federal investigation." Could you imagine that?

Collin didn't understand what the fuss was all about. Unwanted Publicity Intelligence was Internet platformed by Multiply.Com subsequent to Collin purchasing it from MSN.Com, where Collin had begun his website in 1998. This was spy shop talk for the site was already pure agency tool and material. The site had already been approved and accepted and put into play by the U.S. intelligence powers that be. Collin and Unwanted Publicity Intelligence had been doing this exact thing for quite some time. He and his intelligence community associates had been using the Website to post information on, and to utilize it as a central hub for international intelligence gathering resources. It was an international cyber water cooler for everybody to drop by, so they could compare notes on what the international terrorist fraudsters were up to, where, and at what particular times of the day. Collin had planned on telling his DHS handler exactly that. But first, he had to get clearance from his other handler. 


Collin got the confirmation from his main handler to respond to DHS. Upon receiving the 'green light' from CIA-DOJ Squad Six, out of Portland Oregon, Collin contacted Special Agent Nick Jones. It didn't go well. Collin fell onto the defensive immediately and was stunned by what the United States government had 'asked' him to do. At first, DHS said all it wanted was for Collin to remove one simple name, "Neil Benjamin Gibson", from Collin's Website. That's it, nothing more. Collin believed Gibson to be an international criminal, dealing in stolen and fraudulent banking instruments, just like Neil Keenan, but he agreed to do it, anyway. He wanted the U.S. government to go away.

When the job was complete, Collin got another e mail notification from his DHS handler. This time, Collin was told by S.A. Nick Jones that he was to remove Gibson's name from every other location Collin had ever posted Gibson's name on. This would be done "in-conjunction with any and / or all foreign or domestic bank fraud, money-laundering, counterfeit high-value bank paper, trading and /or any and all manipulations of such." The clandestine federal government crackdown to protect its foreign assets had begun in earnest, and Collin was a direct victim thereof. 

That was a lot of work to be tasked on an underpaid, undercover workforce of one. But, Collin did as the good U.S. government asset does; he did as he was told. 

But that still wasn't enough for his handlers at the Department of Homeland Security. Uncle Sam had more work for Paul Collin to do in covering up evidence regarding the thieves who steal the Combined International Collateral Accounts of the Global Debt Facility. Later, when it was time for Collin to run Keenan's past and intended future criminal activities by his handlers, the ones in Oregon would tell Collin to go forward with what he was doing regarding his shadowing of Keenan, pending approval from Collin's DHS handlers. When Collin approached S.A. Jones about Keenan's illegal actions and international terrorist associations, his DHS handlers told him to back off because Keenan was "hands off."

Next, Collin was told by S.A. Jones to remove Neil Benjamin Gibson's name from "other people's websites". It didn't matter whether Collin was in control of those "other people's" Websites or not. It didn't matter who owned them. This task required much more of Collin's time. He utilized what he termed a series of "intelligence operations pretexts" to accomplish this. And they obliged.

Paul Collin still was not done working for Uncle Sam. He had pissed off somebody really high up the government intelligence food chain of command. His exposure of government assets such as Keenan and Gibson had hurt their operations. Paul Collin would pay for his sins.

He'd drawn too much attention to those foreign fraudsters and terrorists who would act as independent contractors, representing Federal Reserve Central Bank System / NSA / CIA controlled interests, in scamming the world of its wealth, by stealing the assets and accounts that originated from the Global Collateral Accounts of the Global Debt Facility. This is the same scam Keenan and Stomach Staples Scott are presently performing in the Republic of the Philippines and Indonesia, Australia and New Zealand.

Paul Collin's operation was now over, for good, he just hadn't been told, yet. When Collin had completed the above tasks, the U.S. DHS handed him his final verdict and requested that he hand over to them the keys to his franchise. The U.S. government now wanted to completely control informational content being distributed by Collin's Unwanted Publicity Intelligence Website. This was because, according to DHS records, Collin had become a real thorn in secret, illegal government operations. His Website was"eclipsing" (overshadowing, clouding, darkening) DHS's global operations. How were their secret foreign operatives going to safely steal the global collateral accounts if Paul Collin was identifying them to the world? Collin was trying to do his job. The U.S. government was doing their job. It was a struggle between irreconcilable forces. Collin lost. And so did we.

Collin knew Gibson was actually working as an undercover thief for the federal government of the United States, just like he knew Keenan was. Like Keenan, Gibson was listed as a non-official cover (NOC) foreign intelligence operative, and allowed to operate in a certain protected international environment. Collin understood the significance of this. If the guy worked for the U.S. government, there was nothing he could do about that. He couldn't blow the agent's cover, or compromise his relationship with the U.S. government intelligence network, especially his handlers. They owed him money. A spy had to be able to pay his bills. But Collin turning over his entire Unwanted Publicity Intelligence Website to allow, in essence, DHS agents to do whatever they wanted, or to say whatever they wanted about whomever they wanted to say it, all while hiding under the cover of Collin's name, didn't work for Collin at all. This is what bad man CIA / NSA Hobie does now to Rayelan Allen at RMN. Paul Collin would be the one taking all the heat no matter which angle it came from. The government could make Paul Collin out to be whatever the U.S. government wanted to make Paul Collin out to be. Collin instantly saw a 'big problem' on the horizon with that scenario, and he could not allow it to happen.

But he was also savvy enough to know the U.S. government would not quit until they got what they wanted. So Collin used what he called an "intelligence pretext on the U.S. government", which he "'re-routed' by making it what at-first appeared to be an extremely attractive counter-offer that the government could "not refuse" The government took over Unwanted Publicity Intelligence, and Paul Collin got out of a jam. But much of the information on Keenan and his associates in theft of Global Collateral Assets had been taken down off the Internet and out of view of public oversight for good, never to be allowed to return.


An offer the government cannot refuse is like the Godfather. Bloody horse head in the bed kind of thing. My favorite kind of an offer. The kind I'd like to give the CIA and NSA. F*ck you, criminal aspects of U.S. government and the CIA, here's your horse head. They control us people at the behest of their controllers along with the Federal Reserve central banking system. The criminal CIA programs us by using anonymous "sources" as the base of their "information" campaign, which is used to formulate our opinions and beliefs. The CIA totally controls all mass media and information outlets when downloading information into the masses. I couldn't stand moronic criminals like Keenan, Fulford, or Gibson being given free reign to misinform the world as to the true nature of legal global financing, while they were being protected as they conducted fraudulent scams designed to defraud innocent international investors, humanity, and to steal assets of the Global Debt Facility.

The light rain fell cold across my white morning stubble. I glanced at my right wrist. The neon glow number on the exercise watch said I still had seven thousand steps to go before my workout was complete. My chest tightened at the thought. I didn't know if I could make seven thousand more steps. I could have called it a day right then and there. But I couldn't do that. Not after what I had read. Not with all the information I now knew existed and had not been presented to the world in the right way. Not with all the questions it raised in my head. Not with the fact that the information was no longer available anywhere on the Internet, in a public forum of any kind. My people of the world had to learn the truth Paul Collin had been trying to tell them for years; the truth David P. Crayford and I have been trying to tell the world for years. There are people sanctioning the stealing of the wealth that was originally intended to feed the people of the world, which includes the West. America is the center stone of the West. David P. Crayford has assured us that America has been "Blacklisted" by the International Treasury Controller, and shall remain so, unable to legally access any assets or gold backing of new currencies, until they pay off what they have stolen from the Global Debt Facility, which, over the past hundreds years, according to Crayford, amounts to roughly one thousand trillion dollars. I will try to write that. One thousand trillion dollars = I couldn't do it. How many zeroes are in one thousand trillion dollars? I'm a lawyer, not an accountant. I can't do this math. David P. Crayford, please help.

The people of the Western world were going to be suffering very badly soon, if they weren't already. It was inevitable for all of us in America who understood what was happening to them and their families, as it takes place. There's soon going to be very little money or food available in circulation, and most of us are going to get caught short. I've been told to think Venezuela and their financial despair. Venezuelans have suffered cruelly due to the shock of their devalued currencies and hyper inflation. And look what the people are going through in India. How's that Indian currency doing? Where you going to hide your gold from your government? These are the truths these controlled as*holes in U.S. intelligence / Federal Reserve central bank system complex are keeping from us.

Children in my country live in a state of deepening nutritional deprivation, starvation, poverty, intoxication, toxic poisoning, sexual abuse, assault, intimidation, and total disinformation programming, because of this. It's a raw deal for all of us, and America's future is in desperate straits. We are dependent now, upon the rest of the world, and will become even more so in the future, only we're not seeing it. Our controlled mass media is not telling us what is about to happen to us. I can see the overall picture. I've been told what's going to happen to us. It's like a slow bullet right between the eyes, and you're watching it come straight at you the whole time, but you know there's nothing you can do to stop it. I was told years ago that the new global powers that be were going to "kill" the American dollar. I've been blessed with the Top Secret intelligence contacts, and tremendous amounts of research, that has cast deeper truth over my understanding of America's economic and social plights. People needed to understand the truthful picture, to see the real problem, so they could begin to discuss real solutions. I was trying to get the truth Paul Collin, and then, Scott Pollack, tried to get out about Neil Pugnose Keenan and Stomach Staples Keith Francis Scott, to the world, so we could solve them, and take Keenan down. I was trying to get their truth out about the greatest controlled criminal complex in the history of planet Earth. I was trying to show the people of the Philippines and the rest of the world what was happening to them, and that I cared, and there were many other aware Americans who cared about their well being as well.

I came up to the next intersection at Berkeley Street. At that red light, I stopped. Sam jogged breathlessly in place, while I bent over heavily, hands to my knees, and I wheezed, feeling my heart trying to pound through my chest. There was so far left to go. When I caught my breath, I stood up and studied the sidewalks, the bobbing heads and the undulating umbrellas. The wet, sparkly trails of white and red lines of car lights, traffic signals, and Christmas lights, all canopied into a living surreal Christmasy snow globe effect down both streets, but without the snow. The morning was bouncing. There were no signs of obvious danger, either way, just a sea of rain splattered rubbers, trench coats, and people with places to go in a hurry. I noticed standing beside me a woman, with a red and black Metallica head scarf on her head and a Herald wrapped in plastic tucked under her arm. President elect Donald Trump pointed his finger at me from page one. In bold headlines, the CIA declared Russia stole the American presidency. I knew there was no guarantee Trump would ever make it to the U.S. presidency alive, and Killary's replacement into the White House was going to kill all of us, the people of America.

What that newspaper said was probably all that woman with the Metallica head scarf would ever read about possible future President Trump. She'd probably never know that Trump had already invited my new very best friend in all the world, Presidente Duterte, to visit the U.S. next year, and that Trump even offered to send a plane to pick up Duterte. That's political friendship for you. I'm still waiting for my plane ride from the Donald. And I hoped Duterte would schedule a one finger lunch meeting with me while he was here. Me and Sam and David P. Crayford. The woman with the newspaper would never understand the significance of these meetings. I couldn't wait to see Presidente Duterte tell President Trump that Trump's American central banking system and intelligence community are working foot in as* together to steal Global Collateral Assets that are stashed in the islands of the Republic of the Philippines. It's been going on for many decades, he would tell our President Elect. That woman could never understand any of that.

That woman goes to work at 7:00 a.m., probably six days a week, gets home at 6:00 p.m. Makes barely enough money to make rent each month, not enough to go out for entertainment or dinner, eats chemicals and pesticides mixed with a little actual nutritional value that passes itself off as food from her frig, gets a little programming from the seven o'clock news, and learns all she'll ever really need to know about the world. She's too worn out to learn the rest. She's too sick from the chemtrails, chemical and toxic metal poisoning, poisoned waters, genetically modified foods. And she will get worse, until she is put down for good, by the Soylent Green meat grinder that is the Western medical / health / insurance death complex.

What the Herald and the 7:00 o'clock news tell that woman will be her program of truth forever. That's her box. I have to worry about mine. She needs to read what David P. Crayford and I write. Which made me swallow hard just thinking about it. I needed to get back home to finish off Part Three B. Crayford was waiting for it. He was always very complimentary of my articles. I needed to finish my four part series, which had now grown to five parts, and was still growing.

When I first set out to write this piece, way back before part one was published, my mind had focused merely on Pugnose Keenan after his fake bullsh*t assassination fake off with Benny the Fraud Fulford. I was ready to write that simple one part piece, just go after that crock of Schmidt clown con terrorist bad guy Neil Pugnose Keenan, and bury him, with words and truth, just like I had promised him I would do, with the stark intent in the front of my mind that one day I would be able to put him away for good in the ITC's "Shark Infested Island" prison, wherever that was. I wanted to watch Keenan have to grow his own root vegetables to survive. I wanted to watch Daddy Bush have to do the same thing. I wondered if the ITC would let Bill Clinton grow medical marijuana, and force him to inhale.

It was just last month that I had morning tea and a couple good moments of David P. Crayford's hellaciously busy schedule. In that meeting he told me he didn't think Pugnose was long for this world. He doesn't call him Pugnose, just I do that. And Sam. Sam the secret agent man laughs when he hears Pugnose. When I came across Scott Pollack's expose on Neil Keenan's criminal fraud and abuse against Jean Haines, on The Critical Post - Chicago, the old ballgame had changed as far as what I was going to write about. Besides, Scott Pollack had put out a lot of material that I had never seen. 


To give the man his due credit, Scott Pollack did a yeoman's job in investigating Neil Keenan and exposing him on behalf of Jean Haines, and Neil Pugnose Keenan victims the world over. It was very narrowly interpreted, focused, and presented, but it provided a lot of information and a clearer picture of who Keenan was, and how his associates operated in the slimy world around him, even today.

I hadn't researched with great depth the whole Jean Haines / Keenan affair, but I did understand the bottom line, and that was that Keenan conned this sweet widow of a lady out of $330,000 --- 00 USD (which one intel report I've seen claimed to actually be over $1,000,000 USD) to perpetuate his schemes and fraud and international terrorist activities. And then he bullied her. Like any other knowledgeable writer or reader, you feel bad for a woman like that, and then you move on. You have bills to pay. Child support payments to strangle you. You note that she's just one of many victims, you research, and you try to find the rest

I had been working on this whole truth process regarding humanity's eventual spiritual and financial redemption thanks to the collateral assets of the Global Debt Facility for many years. Sam had gotten me locked in focus on it when he came back from Asia, appearing out of nowhere, after he had left us in mourning the death of my sister all those years ago.

While I was researching Keenan, I found Paul Collin. While researching Collin and Keenan, I found Scott Pollack. Scott Pollack introduced me to a secret U.S. agent named 'Charlie'. 'Charlie' was the one who told me that I might be living the lie, that there could be a whole new reality behind what I believed to be true regarding all the participants to the original OITC. According to Charlie and Pollack, they were all bad at the OITC, all OITC's, good and bad.

If the lie were true, then my belief in the way the world was going to end up was way off as well. My understanding was that this benevolent financial institution that called itself the ITC, who legally owned and controlled the Global Collateral Accounts and Assets of the Global Debt Facility, would be the tipping point for humanity to be able to finally overcome its global dominators, the Federal Reserve central banking system. Whoever controlled the Global Debt Facility controls mankind, I knew. The key was whether it be benevolent control, for the sake of humanity, or for collective human suffering and suffocation, which is the same old boss. One or the other.


I was at home at my desk last night in front of the computer. Above the bar, the wiggly hipped Elvis clock said it was almost midnight. Outside the cracked window of my kitchen, stood the 'super' moon, zapping me with intense golden yellow light and energy, keeping me working, fingers slapping at keys, writing my way out of alimony hell, polishing Part Three B. I was exhausted then, just as I was now, running those early morning New England streets with Sam, his reckless abandon, crammed into his super sleek tight purple neon hypo thermal aerodynamic jogging outfit. It was actually very cool. It brought color to an otherwise dreary morning universe. I was jog-walking and Sam was running. I couldn't keep up anymore, but Sam did slow, allowing me to catch up, and he said, "So, why you running so slow? What's the matter with you?" 

I looked at him, "Chronologically or alphabetically?"

He laughed, and said, "Alphabetically."

I took in a deep chest expanding breath, exhaled, and said, "I'm confused, man. I don't know what's going on anymore. I don't know what I'm going to do with any of this stuff. I feel like I'm living on an island, you know, just waiting for it to explode."

Sam jogged on that one for a moment and said, "Did you mean a volcano? Waiting for a volcano to explode?"
"Yes," I said, "a volcano. Just like I said."

Sam said, "You said, island. I like islands. I know what you mean. You said you wanted to own an island, right. You should feel right at home."

This conversation wasn't going anywhere fast. This was not going to be easy. Sam and I were connecting, just not at the right frequency. I spun the frequency dial to see if I could change that. It was a strange world, indeed, but I had to be careful with how I framed this, even to Sam. If what Pollack and Collin had to say was true, then everyone in my world could be tainted, and this included Sam, and everybody up the line from there. If Sam were tainted, I truly didn't know what I would do. I had no way of knowing for sure where Sam had been all those missing years. I had no idea how many national or international intelligence organizations he actually operated with. I couldn't be sure who he was operating with as we ran together. I believed I knew, and it was ITC, but it was difficult for me to be sure. So I had to be careful. My life depended upon it. "This guy I was telling you about was a DHS agent," I said. "His name was Paul Collin. And for years, like, as far as I can tell, at least going back to 2004, up to the 2009 Chiasso affair, he put together this personal database of files, which covered many of what he called his operational transactions. Many of those involved Pugnose."

I angled my glance to take a hard look at a particularly impressive block of three and four story Victorian brownstone homes. I said, "So he had a lot of intelligence about the OITC, with Scott and Keenan's involvement."

Sam said, "There usually is with these guys. We both know that."

I had just written about how Scott had smeared Dr. Dam's good reputation all over Australia, New Zealand, Cambodia, South East Asia, and Europe. I carefully rolled these next particular words around the inside of my mouth. "So there was a lot of stuff in there," I said, "that tied the two OITC's together."

Sam nodded in agreement. He said, "How Dr. Dam, and Alfredo Sauren, and Scott, and David Sale all worked together under the fake OITC umbrella. Dr. Dam had no idea the entire organization had been stolen right out from under him by Scott, while he was working for Scott. And so, yeah --- David P. Crayford talked about that too. He said everyone back then who thought they were working for the real OITC, was actually working for the CIA."

I stabbed my finger in the air. "Exactly," I said. "That's exactly what I'm talking about regarding Paul Collin, only different."

Sam darted across the street. I sprinted to catch up. "I'm not following you," Sam said.

I looked around to make sure we weren't being followed. CIA / NSA operatives taking two of us out at once would be a huge blow to humanity. "Can I ask you something, really personal?" I asked.

Sam raised one eyebrow. "You can ask," he said.

I said, "How long have you known David P. Crayford?"

Sam tilted his head at an odd angle. "Quite a while," he said. "Why?"

That was a good question he gave back to me, no doubt about that. It was an honest question. I needed to answer it correctly. I said, "No, I'm just, you know, I wondered how well you really thought you knew him. You really believe you could trust him. You'd let your girlfriend massage his back, that kind of thing."

Sam studied me, and then a smile crept onto his face. He said, "I think I know David P. Crayford very well, thank you". 

I said, "You're welcome."

Sam said, "And I don't think his girlfriend would let your girlfriend near him."

I laughed. I thought that was funny. David P. Crayford never told me he had a girlfriend.


Sam's smile transformed the jog into an Indonesian sunset.

I matched Sam's smile with frozen tundra. "How well is very well?" I asked. "How well do you know David P. Crayford?"

Sam contemplated, then he said, "I believe I know that man to be true to his word, if that's what you mean."
I said, "That is what I mean.

Sam cut down Exeter, with me right behind him. "Isn't that what it's all about?" he said. "A man's word? Isn't that what you're always talking about...?"

I said, "Yes, that's exactly what I'm talking about."

Sam pointed to jog around a man walking his dog. We jogged around them. Both were wearing Red Sox raincoats. "What do you have without that?" Sam asked. "And how long does that take to achieve in a relationship? In my opinion, it takes a long time to get to know what a man's word truly means. Whether he can be trusted. Whether you would put your life on the line for that man's word. For what that man believes. Or for the man himself. Of course, he has to prove his words first. He has to walk the talk. And you have to listen to what that man has to say, for a long time. You have to see and breathe the reality of his words, in one way or another. You have to communicate with that person's heart to be able to determine whether there is truth in that heart."

I asked, "Have you done that with David P. Crayford."

Sam said, " I have done that with David P. Crayford."

I asked, "What did you find?"

Sam said, "I can say that with the utmost in confidence that David has a huge heart. The thing about David P. Crayford is he's not always in a position to say what he knows or he thinks. He knows a lot. He's in a top notch profession in the dirty top secret business world of high finance international banking, with an amazing zest for life, and tremendous work ethic."

"And a hot girlfriend," I said.

Sam frowned, and ran faster. Which meant I had to. He said, "He doesn't have time for that. His life, and the lives of those around him, depend on secrecy. It's always been like that." Sam looked at me expectantly. "Does that answer your question?"

I said, "About Crayford or his girlfriend?"

Sam shot me the stink eye.

I threw up my hand to deflect it. "All right, I was just kidding," I said. "Absolutely, you answered my question, counselor. That's how I feel about David P. Crayford as well. I believe what he says. I have to believe in something, and the truth is, I believe in David P. Crayford. But, as far as all that information he has...maybe there's a reason he doesn't tell you everything. Maybe he's hiding something."

Sam suddenly cut down an alley I had never seen before. I followed. I didn't think there was anybody tailing us, but if there was, we lost them. "Of course there's a reason," Sam said. "And he's hiding a lot. Like I said, everything he deals with is classified. What he tells us is on a need to know basis. He's like that with everyone he deals. He's doing some really important things when you think about the awesome responsibilities that must be associated with recovering stolen assets of the Global Debt Facility. Can you imagine the ITC's workload?"

I could imagine his workload in dealing with thieves alone. It was stupendous. He was owner to and, pursuant to Secret International Treaties, responsible for the recovery of trillions of quadrillions of dollars worth of stolen wealth and treasure. The ITC appointed David P. Crayford to be his only spokesperson. David P. Crayford said he loves the work. His workload was tremendous. It was impossible, I believed. That job was too huge, no matter how smart the ITC was, wasn't it? I couldn't even really begin to contemplate the enormity of it all, recovering all those assets, tracking down all those thieves, building all those prison cells on 'Shark Infested Prison Island.' "But, that's not what I'm talking about," I said.

Sam asked, "Well, what are you talking about?"

I said, "Did David P. Crayford ever mention anything to you about David Sale working for Keenan?"
There it was. The question was out there in the air like the Hindenberg. And it appeared to hit Sam hard at first. Although I had done the same to many an unsuspecting witness in my career, I had no intent of throwing Sam off balance like that. I needed straight answers, and I was trying to give him straight questions. He frowned. "That's a bunch of BS," he said.

I said, "What is? That Crayford would tell you anything, or that Sale worked for Keenan?"

"Both!" Sam said, and everything got heart attack serious. "That Sale worked with Keenan. That Crayford would even say such a load of crock. Do you have any f*cking idea what you're talking about?"

I said, "Yes I do."

He said, "...Do you realize what you just said?"

I said, "Yes, Sam, I have..."

He said, "...What you have just insinuated about very respectable people?" 

There was nothing for me to say. I could just run and listen as Sam's head cocked like a rooster with emphasis, and there were those udders flapping again. The beard had done a good job of covering it up, but Sam needed to grow it longer.

I was stunned for a second, which is a long time for me to be stunned. I had never heard Sam swear before. Sam was usually way very cool. Asian calm, keeping his feelings inside, harder to read than a mime stripper. He wasn't usually four letter vocal like New Yorkers are. Sam was Zen. Although, at that particular moment, he looked like he had Irish in him, and his Irish was acting up. And, yes, I did realize what I had just said. It wasn't an insinuation, it was a question. The lawyer's question, that reared its ugly little head, the one I did not want to have to ask, and the witness did not react well to. But that was the central core to our issue. And I needed answers. And he gave them to me. First, David P. Crayford did not ever mention Sale working for Keenan, which is, what I believed. And, secondly, that Sam was insulted by my question. Not only was he insulted, he had taken it personally. Which was good, as far as my question was concerned. Sam was defending not only David P. Crayford, and his integrity, but he defended David Sale as well. I didn't know if Sam had ever met with Sale, but he sure didn't believe Sale was working for Keenan.

I was waiting for Sam to swear again, his Irish to pop back out, have his shot of whisky, strip naked and start fighting. When that didn't happen, I patted the square of my chest. "I got it all right here, Sam," I said. "I need you to look at it."

"What do you have right there?" Sam asked.

I said, "I copied everything. I don't know if Crayford even knows about this stuff. I wrote to him twice about it, but he never responded. I couldn't get him to comment about Collin. I wonder if the International Treasury Controller knows about all of this." 

I felt my nose and it was beginning to take on the texture of a wet, frozen potato. The fog rolled in from the north off the lake. The weather was getting colder, as the morning attitudes grew longer. I wondered if it might not actually snow. I always preferred snow to the rain, especially during football season. Growing up in New England you learned how to deal with the freezing weather. That was easy. It was the blistering wind blowing off the backs of necks that you never forgot; that nearly sliced me in half now. I pulled the saturated hood over my tormented head. "I've got the whole thing figured out, Sam" I said, "I believe."

He stopped his run, and turned to me. I stopped, and had to take a second to catch my breath. "What exactly is it you believe you have figured out?" Sam said.

I was having a hard time catching my breath. "Okay, so this is the story, from what I can tell," I said. "Everybody may be rogue..."

He started to run again before I could finish. I didn't understand what was going on. I didn't know what he was thinking, but I couldn't afford to lose Sam now. I needed Sam to hang in there with me, to be my best friend. To help me find the truth. I hadn't even showed him my documents yet. He needed to look at the documents, and then he would understand why I asked the question. He had to read them. He needed to study the intelligence information that I had accrued. I was just beginning to touch upon the magnificent scope of what I had discovered. I was testing Sam, and I believed him. If there was any deception going on, I didn't think he was a knowing participant. "You need to know the facts, so you can help me determine the truth of the information these guys are putting out there," I yelled, but he was too far ahead of me to hear.

David P. Crayford is whom I would have to speak with. He's the only one I talk to now about what's going on in the ITC. It's nobody else. The ITC hasn't even responded to my job application, let alone send me a birthday reminder. David P. Crayford possesses the opinion that I use to base many of my conclusions on. Crayford has always vouched for David Sale's integrity, unquestioned. That's always been good enough for me. Keenan has always attacked Sale. So has Stomach Staples Keith Francis Scott, and so has Benny the Fraud Fulford. At one point, Sale appeared to be the hero in all of this, at least from what I could determine from Crayford's writings, but maybe that was just Crayford's POV. Maybe that's the perspective he wanted us all to believe. Maybe David P. Crayford was an unreliable narrator to his own story. I couldn't be sure. This is what I was trying to understand. How do you verify anything that man has to say? But, on the other hand, how could you believe anything Neil Pugnose Keenan had ever said about anything? You couldn't. Keenan was the programmed lie. He wouldn't know the truth if it speared him in the groin. I would befriend anyone who said they were an enemy of Neil Francis Pugnose Keenan. It's all about who can be trusted and who cannot. Neil Keenan, absolutely, I believed, could never be trusted. So if Keenan said Sale was bad, which he did, many times, then I would believe Sale was good. Keenan and Scott, with Fulford's help, tried to set Sale up for the attempted assassination of the first International Treasury Controller. So I believed just the opposite on all of that.

Sam picked up the pace, and took a Ralphie and headed north up Massachusetts Avenue. I was ten strides behind him. His turn had caught me by surprise. This was new running territory for me. This was the first time I'd ever seen these beautiful trees, on this particular street. My hangouts were all on the other side of town. We were now on a sprinting blacktop run. We ran past gritty industrial zones and verdant suburbia. We swooshed by gentrified brownstones, college campuses, and bustling commercial strips, none of which I'd ever frequented. 

Sam was running crazy again, and I had to speed up. But I wouldn't be able to keep up this pace for long. Lucky for me, Sam slowed, and we were soon jogging side by side again. Sam had natural, graceful long jumper strides. I wheezed and imagined what it might be like to have any kind of natural stride. "Tell me more about Paul Collin," he said.

"He's the man, Sam," I said. "He's the agent with all the answers. That's why Keenan contacted him in the first place. They had tons of exchanges. Apparently, when taken in their whole, this body of e mails painted a much larger, unsettling background of what was actually going on all around Keenan, at that time. It included NOCs, and international terrorists, international banks, financial institutions, related corporations. And all those who ran them. With tons of characters, and that included Dr. Ray Chhat Dam."

Sam asked, "What about David P. Crayford?"

I asked, "What about David P. Crayford?"

Sam said, "No mention of him in all those reports and e mails?"

That was another strong strange astute deduction by Sam. Collin and Pollack had both talked plenty about a plethora of the main characters in the ITC / Global Debt Facility / Federal Reserve central banking system saga. Scott, Keenan, Fulford, Wilcock, Sale, Dr. Dam, and many others, but no mention, ever, about David P. Crayford. How did he get the whiteout treatment? Why hadn't global intelligence documented Crayford's alleged whereabouts, ever? Why hadn't he been documented to have been tied to Scott's fake OITC group of companies, like everyone else and their mothers, at least once? "So far none," I said. "But I'm still searching. Sam, these are the guys. The ones we've been tracking. They're all here. These are the ones who are stealing from the Global Debt Facility, in one manner or another. They are who Crayford and I write about. In 2009, they were all doing the exact same thing Keenan was doing, only different."

Sam said, "And they're all in those documents?"

I said, "Everything that the CIA hasn't scrubbed from the Internet."

Sam said, "So whereare all these e mails now, between Collin and Keenan?"

I could smell freshly brewed coffee. It made me hungry for donuts with M&M's. I said, "I'm not sure. I assume Collin has them. I pulled what I could from Collin's old Website."

Sam's forehead pinched into a V. "I thought you said the U.S. government took over his Website. You said that happened back in 2010, or something like that."

I said, "No, it was, it was more like 2012. But it still had a lot of good information on it. It had that picture of Keenan with Alfredo Sauren, the 'Philippines Phantom.' But a lot of the good, new information, I got from Scott Pollack. Collin had contacted Scott to help get the truthful information out about Keenan. And there was a lot of new information that Collin had that Pollack had no idea about. I had to pull a lot off of Youtube as well. Pollack went crazy. It took me forever to find all of his stuff. "

There was no rain at the moment, just lots of traffic, and many people late for work. In this city, you could perpetually be late. There were so many people, and I think most of them had no idea where they were going. There was so much history to this neighborhood, but who ever stayed around long enough to be able to remember any of it? To recite it, to tell their grandchildren about it? Who stayed around long enough to get to know each other by name? Who knew their own grandchildren? When I was a dorky prepubescent kid growing up north of here, walking and chewing gum could sometimes prove a monumental challenge. Now, it was breathing and surviving, while Top Secret global intelligence shop talking and running with Sam the secret agent man. "Collin was the man to talk to," I said. "The expert when it comes to all these bond sales and buys. I think David P. Crayford would be very interested in Collin. Collin knows all the players. He's got the personal database of files to prove it. I would like to see his personal database of files. I bet it's got all the names of all the players up to date."

I looked over at Sam, and he was breathing too easily. He looked like he was meditating while jogging, or riding a magic carpet. Sam said, "So Collin just wrote back to Keenan. They just kept exchanging e mails. And you think he's got all these records, now, up to date, somewhere."

"He says he does," I said. "Scott Pollack says he does too. He said he's seen them. He was showing some of them on his videos. I took down all the new information there was, and now I'm trying to get you to look at it."

Sam said, "What...?"

I clutched my left breast. "What, what?" I said.

Sam said, "...information do they really have?"

I said, "Well, that's the fifty million dollar question, isn't it? That's why you need to look at what I got, and we go from there." I put four fingers into quotation marks, and said, "Collin was giving Keenan 'cautionary information alerts'. He was warning Keenan of what the f*ck was going on out there. Who the bad guys were. Who to watch out for. They were working with each other. There was probably some pretty good exchanges going on."

Sam said, "So, in other words, he was trying to help Keenan commit his crimes."

The right side of my mouth lifted into a half smile. "I don't think so, that's not what I'm saying," I said. "I think he was trying to set him up."

Sam asked, "What, you mean like a sting, or something?"

I nodded. "Collin was working undercover for DHS, and that's exactly what I think he was doing," I said "a sting. On Keenan's entire operation. At first, I think he was just trying to help keep Keenan out of trouble. Build a relationship. So he ran through all the pitfalls of dealing with phony asset claims and the types of bank bonds and financial instruments that were tied to them. He warned Pugnose about the different trading fraudsters that were promoting these, what he called, intelligence information devices. I mean, it's like the same guys we've been dealing with for years. And they were playing the same," four fingers into quotation marks, "sophisticated investment games that you and I have been monitoring and me and David P. Crayford have been writing about. They were using those games to garner intelligence on black-market Trade Financing. And guess what? They made a killing. That was used to prop up, amongst other things, terrorist financing. What Crayford's been yelling about for eight years."

We crossed Marlborough Street and ran two silent blocks while Sam chewed on that. The dark fog had rolled back in, and it was starting to rain again. Sam slowed so I could catch him. "That's how they financed 9 1 1," he said.

The realization was huge. "You bet it is," I said. 

Men like Neil Pugnose Keenan and Stomach Staples Keith Francis Scott make the deals that fuel global terrorism. Look at what's taking place all over the world today. Most if not all of it is being financed by stolen Global Debt Facility assets, which are physically spread out all over the world, but mostly in Southeast Asia. The tens upon thousands of islands and islets of the Philippines, Indonesia, Malaysia, act as home to Royal Family wealth, and CIA criminal terrorists who would steal it. I wouldn't be surprised if that's what all of China's and Russia's aggression in the South China Sea and the Kuril Islands are really about. Keep American and other foreign national terrorists off their islands and their soil, so they can protect their precious metal wealth. The U.S. had it's chance. It had the TTTGC destroy Marcos. It had Scott and Keenan and the Federal Reserve central banking system / CIA / NSA complex take over the OITC and destroy Dr. Dam. They are out to murder Crayford, David Sale, and the second ITC, and every other secret member of that secret organization, or so I have been warned repeatedly.

And then Sam smiled. "I'm impressed," he said. "Sounds like you've done some good work, once again. I look forward to reading what you've got."

The smile was back on my face too. "I knew you would be," I said.

Sam said, "I'm sure David P. Crayford will be too." He smiled again, said "excuse me," picked up his cell phone, and read it's face. He studied the message intently. He pulled his headphones back out of his pocket, plugged them into the phone's and his ears, pressed a button, and then he kicked it into fourth gear. He waved, I think, and I waved back, even though I was confused, and then he left me in the dust. Or in this case, the muddy puddles of bean town. 
I watched him turn right down Beacon Street. He was heading east, at a very fast rate, and their was no way I could catch him, so I slowed down. Up to this point, I had actually surprised myself. I had caught a second wind, and I got after it. I had kicked it into the highest gear I had, which I hadn't seen in decades. I sprinted like the undersized pulling offensive guard I once was. Pure adrenaline driven, overweight, out of shape, half crippled ballet dancer, raging on point, dodging parked cars and octogenarian bicyclists, pirouetting over fire hydrants, flooring it around mindless walkers of short dogs and over caffeinated dark skinned taxi drivers, unlike I had for any of the previous 3.37 miles of splashing through deep street flooding, but Sam was nowhere in sight to catch any of my act. 


When I got around the corner, my heart sank. Sam was nowhere to be seen. I stopped for a moment, my chest heaving, and I gazed down the reality of the situation, as sure as Beacon Street separated Back Bay from the Charles River. 

I jogged east to Gloucester, and turned up the same alley mouth I thought I saw someone who might have looked like Sam turn up. I took off into the unknown. I'd actually lived in these neighborhoods for the better part of the last several months, but I never knew this area even existed. 

I walked up a paved path. Drooping Norway maples stood sentry to either side. In front of me, was the Gloucestor Street landing, a serene and quiet end of the road, which sat on axis with Gloucester Street. A classical granite balustrade ran along the water's edge, leading up to the dock. Next to that was a small plaza area, furnished with small concrete benches. There was a lone figure sitting on one of the benches. It wasn't Sam. I gazed beyond the docks, out into the brown churning lagoon. I walked down to the water's edge and studied the silence of the swaying trees. I moved silently over to the plaza, and I took a seat on the bench behind the man with the round glasses, hat and cane. "What in the hell are you doing here, sir?" I said.

From behind me, a familiar voice said, "Hello Al." It was David P. Crayford. "It's so good to see you."

I said, "It's very good to see you too, sir." I scanned the area one more time. "Is Sam with you?"

Crayford said, "No, he's not. To answer your earlier question, I came down here, because I wanted to speak with you about your paper." My face must have looked like a question mark, because he said, "I wanted you to know that I saw your paper, and I thought it was a very nice try."

My first assumption was that he was talking about my Part Three B, which hadn't been published yet. "How did you see it?" I said, "Did I send it to you?" I had been so completely exhausted with my work, my life, my writing, my health, that it was entirely possible I could have sent it to him, and totally forgotten about it. But it was also highly unlikely. 

Crayford confirmed my point. Sort of. I didn't send it to him. He got Part Three B from my computer, or someone got it from my computer, which is the only place it's at right now, and gave it to him. "It's good," he said. "I liked what you wrote."

Crayford's words hung in the damp air like a pregnant high jumper. They were heavy, and you knew they were going to hit the ground eventually.

"Thank you," I said. I couldn't stand the suspense of what I needed to work on, so I said, "But what?"

Crayford said, "I also found it to be lacking in key critical and descriptive parts. It could use, I don't know, real examples, maybe. More details of real events. You need to include some actual real information to give it a 'Cliff Hanger' type of situation."

I turned my head a bit to make sure I could be heard above the wind. "I used a lot of real information, in my piece, David. My piece was filled with real, dynamic information. About Paul Collin, the U.S. government, the spying, the global debt facility. It's all there. Respectfully asking, did you read the whole thing? I showed how Collin's Website got scrubbed by CIA, just like RMN did with us. I thought that was very dramatic. I showed how Collin was communicating with Keenan during the whole Chiasso event. I thought it was amazing how much information that he must have gotten out of that. I wanted to see it. And those are two things that I wanted to tell the world."

Crayford waved his hand. "That's not what I mean."

I said, "Could you be more specific, please?"

Crayford said, "I can be more specific." He shifted his seat to face the lagoon. "You mention Keenan many times, and his fraudulent ways, and all of that business, but you do not emphasize any real examples or deep realities of his crimes. If you take the Chiasso incident, you could really expand on that because there were more people involved than just Keenan, Yamaguchi, or Watanabe. There was Daniele Dal Bosco. He's another who Keenan has really had some arrogance goes at. Then there was Bruno, and I can't remember his surname, who runs the World Economic Forum in Davos, Switzerland in January each year. Keenan says he was deeply involved, but he wasn't involved at all."

The truth was, I didn't know the entire truth about Daniele Dal Bosco or Bruno, who runs the World Economic Forum. These were not characters whom I had studied in great detail, yet. The only truth I believed to be true about either one was what David P. Crayford had himself written. I took Crayford's writings at face value. That's why I became involved in the man and his cause years ago. I said, "I've spoken about Chiasso many times in the past. So have you. So I don't feel a need to write about it now, because I am trying to get Pollack's and Collin's information out. That's really the whole purpose of this part of this series. It's all about Keenan and those he works with. I felt if people wanted to read more about Chiasso, other than what I am going to present, which is only what I got from Collin and Pollack, then they're going to need to go read your previous writings."

Crayford leaned forward on his cane. He said, "Another one you could have talked about was Michael Van D'Meer, aka, Michael Meering. He's another top CIA operative in charge of stealing gold and other assets from Mindanao in the Philippines."

I turned my head. I could now see a side angle of the back brim of his black hat. "But David," I said, "the thing is, I don't know anything about Michael Van D'Meer..."

"Duterte knows about Michael Van D'Meer," Crayford said. "He knows quite well about the bomb explosion that ripped off Michael's legs. Duterte wanted Van D'Meer to stand trial in the Philippines for theft, but the Americans weren't going to allow it. They whisked him out back to America where he was fitted with prosthetic legs and then re-stationed in Switzerland. And that's where Daniele Dal Bosco met him. I will tell you one thing right now. Duterte has a long memory. He doesn't forget things. And he is livid that Americans ignored Philippine Law and do as they please."

I put my hands in my pockets. I didn't blame Duterte. He thinks Van D'Meer was trying to blow him up. I stared out beyond the lagoon, into the white caps of Lake Charles, and said, "The thing is, David, this is the stuff you should be writing about. This is the stuff I don't have any records of."

Crayford said, "But you could research it, couldn't you, Al. You could find the answers. You've found all the others before."

I blew a fog breath smoke ring. It vanished. "I'm sure I could," I said. "But this is the thing. Just like I was trying to say in my article, there's nothing left on the Internet that hasn't already been said. Any real exposing facts on Michael Van D'Meer or Michael Meering has been removed by CIA / NSA. Just like they did with Collin at Unwanted Publicity Intelligence. Just like they did with you and I at RMN news."

Crayford said, "Well then you need to find it. You need to dig deeper."

I said, "I just told you - how am I supposed to do that?"

Crayford said, "You'll find a way." For the first time ever, I saw the slightest hint of a smile bend Crayford's straight face. "I feel very confident about that."

I had no idea what that way was going to be. When you realized the extent of manpower and technology the CIA / NSA put out there to cover their tracks, it was extraordinary. How were we supposed to beat that? How was I supposed to get those answers, without them tracking me down first?

Crayford said, "The same for Keenan."

He had lost me there. For the first time, I glanced squarely over at him. I saw a weary man. I quickly turned back. "What's the same for Keenan?" I said.

Crayford pulled a white monogrammed handkerchief out of his left coat pocket and cleaned off his glasses. "There's a lot of meat on that Keenan bone," Crayford said. "Things you are not exposing yet. Keenan and his antics, let the whole truth come out, Al. You might want to bring in more excitement, more real information. At the moment you are saying things that readers may shun because it is just a story. You need to make people want to continue reading and patiently waiting for the next article. Bring in facts, reality, stuff that they can, if they wanted to, verify for themselves directly. We don't want to rely too much on them believing you just because they like the way you write."

That stung. But it was good to know people believed me because I was a good writer. I was also a truthful writer. Which meant people were believing in the truth. "But this has never been about my writing," I said. "This is about getting the truth out. About what you're doing. And defending you, which is why I first started writing. What I write is about life. It's about my life, trying to get the story of how the world really works, out there to the public. It's my POV of the world as it relates to the Global Debt Facility, and the mysteries that surround it. Story is how I am trying to relay my understanding of what is happening, to others. My reactions to what happens to me. Most people in the world are programmed to story. Think about it. Whether we're talking myths, or poems, or plays, that have lasted through centuries, they're geared around, story. Story of courageous people who do courageous things, characters who have human virtues, but also flaws and foibles. That's what I'm trying to write. The story of the ITC and the Global Debt Facility. And you, I, and Sam populate that story world. And, now, I'm trying to get America, and the rest of the world, to understand that Pollack and Collin went after Keenan, hard, with specific examples of what a criminal terrorist he is. That's how I exposed Keenan's tie in with Alfredo Sauren. You liked that one."

Crayford said, "Oh, I did. I liked it, yes. It was very information filled. You were writing, like I was suggesting you write on this one. You weren't too caught up in story."

I said, "Again, right now, all I'm trying to do is get the Pollack / Collin story out there, then I'll move on. That's just what I promised my readers, and, I've been delayed. I know it's just the minutiae of my life, but that's how it is. That's my reality. That's what I'm trying to put down on the page. That's what I believe my readers expect of me. That's how I think my readers want to feel. I know it's not all the hot juicy up to the minute CIA Global Debt Facility theft stuff, but it's all I got. Even though I'm an old man, I'm still learning new tricks. They've scrubbed the Internet, and they've removed everything else. What I'm putting out in this series, is the last new stuff on the Internet about Keenan and his cohorts, and their operations. It's the last vestiges of truth. This is all I can find. You're gonna have to blame the CIA and NSA for me not giving you what you want."

Crayford cleared his throat. "I'm not trying to argue with you, Al," he said. "I would just like to see some more real examples of information, because that's what people are looking for. People are reading what you write, there is no question about that. I have heard from Senior Custodians in the Philippines and elsewhere who thank us for our information. They appreciate what you write. Many people appreciate what you write. We have given good information which these people know to be correct and accurate. That is what we want people of the world to do, so let's do it. Let's do it for the people of the Philippines. They are reading what we write. Give your story line some real information, exciting information, which they can believe in or which generates the confirmation of what they already know and believe. Please remember, we are exposing the people who have, and are, stealing. We are exposing them in a way that they eventually lose their credibility and people stop believing them, and others stop being caught, or losing money, in their fraudulent operations."

I shifted in my seat. I wiggled my toes on both feet, which felt equally frozen. "You make us sound like James Bond." I said.

Crayford's fingers rolled a drumbeat onto his cane. "That's a good analogy, Al," he said. "We are trying to build a picture that is real and which people can believe, similar to the James Bond series. Excitement, gives a picture of reality, a good story line, action, and sometimes consternation. James Bond was the ultimate MI6 agent, or so people thought, because they knew no difference because of the MI6 secrecy factors. We are in a similar situation. It's Secret but we have to get the truth out there somehow and in a way that tells the truth and people believe. We can only do that, in my opinion, by verbally killing off the rogues such as Keenan and Scott with reality and the truth."


I smiled. I liked that. "Verbally killing off the rogues," I said. "That's what I'm trying to do. That's what I do with every piece I've written since I started writing last March."

Which was true. Benny the Fraud Fulford was actually the first Global Debt Facility criminal I went after. I haven't "verbally" killed him off yet, but I will. He's already been mortally wounded. His following is dying hourly. I was busy now teaching a whole new generation of readers the truth about Benny the Fraud. Crayford had the old readership, that he had been working from different networks from at least as far back as 2008. People were learning the truth about the Fraud Fulford now from a whole new mind. And then there was Halloween Mask Karen Hudes. I verbally killed her off. She used to be everywhere, and she's nowhere to be found now. I went after her hard. Told the D.C. and Maryland bar associations they needed to shut her ugly, drugged out, boring as* down. Crayford and I definitely knocked her for a loop, and she deserved it. I went after her right after Crayford had knocked her but*buddy Wolfgang 'Big Woofie' Struck off the air. What a total whimpy chump he was. But I exposed Hudes, and her husband Barry Spergel, and his tie in to the Rockefeller/ international banking / foundation aspect of their Federal Reserve central bank system global crime enterprise. I exposed China Landa Global / Humanas for the fraudulent CIA scam front they were. And then I nailed the clown trio running it, Jerky Bobblecockski, Little Dougie Jones, and Wee Willie Chocolate Factory. I broke the cover of multi headed / octopus / multi personality / sociopath Jerky Bobblecockski / Jerzy Babkowski / ZAPP / Susan / Poof. Always the same creepy crawling underneath. I proved that they were all the same. Just read my previous articles. Through my writings, I exposed the judge to be a total fraud, which Anna Banana von Reitz / Riezinger is. If I ever have the time to write it, I will expose her for being the Agent Provocateur that she is. I blame the whole Bundy militia murder stand down affair on Anna Banana's, and her associates', writings, manipulation and disinformation, regarding the Patriot / Militia movement. I was verbally killing a lot of bad guys, and I was just really getting started, and I'm still working at it. I have proven Neil Keenan is an international con artist, thief, terrorist, and he makes murderous threats to those who would take him on. I give specific examples of it every time I write about him. I wrote about how he tried to kill the first ITC, Dr. Ray Chhat Dam, and how he's threatened to kill the second International Treasury Controller.

I glanced over at Crayford. He was sitting there, a picture frozen in contemplation. I wasn't sure if he was meditating or willing the cars across the Harvard Bridge in the distance. "But we're not James Bond," I said. 

Crayford looked over at me.

"Not et, at least, I mean," I said. "I haven't even been hired by this secret organization. Don't I get a paycheck and an ID card, or maybe a decoder ring with a free bag of M & M's before I'm fully in?"

David P. Crayford breathed fog into the cold morning air, and I thought I could see maybe the slightest of smiles, before it disappeared. He planted his cane in front of him and placed both hands on top of it. "If you want further info from me please ask and I will give it because you need to give your story line an explosive situation, or situations."

Humbled, to say the least, I said, "Please, give me everything you've got, David. I will see what I can do. I want to write what you want me to write. I want to wake Americans up. I want to help Americans. I want to help the people in the Philippines understand the truth of their destiny. I want the world to all understand. That's why I write. My immediate goal is to get Pollack's and Collin's information about Keenan out. It's that important. And that's what I've got to do. Scott Pollack and the Critical Post - Chicago, actually took a lot of time and resources to get this info out. Some of it had to be hidden on videos on Youtube. Who was ever going to find that there?"

"You were, Al," David P. Crayford said, rising to his feet," "you were." He stretched. His arms slowly rising into the air, and outward. The cane extending from his left hand, pointing straight into the sky, and I half expected a thunderbolt of lightening to shoot out of it. And then maybe the clouds to part, and the sun to come out brilliantly shining. I watched and waited, but the only thunderbolts or sunshine this morning were flying from Crayford's words. "Also, remember, Christmas and New Year is coming up so people won't be working. They will have time on their hands so they will be reading things like your articles. They will be hoping that you have more real information for them."

I smiled, as only David P. Crayford could make me do. You had to love a guy like that. He could be soooo subtle, like a thermonuclear explosion. He set his cane down. It was the first time I had ever really had a chance to see his cane in light. I had never seen it outdoors before. It always just kind of remained hidden, in the dark, when he came over to my pad for tea. 

Crayford's cane was magnificent. It was shiny black with intricate gold etching running its length. It's handle was a head figure, like a King's head, or a God Head, but definitely some kind of powerful Monarch or Spiritual Figure. I couldn't tell exactly which. It appeared to be made of gold. Glistening, bright gold. I didn't know whether it had secret compartments, shot bullets or contained concealed knives, but I could see what looked like ancient letters or words going down off one part of the handle, with a Lion's Head circle backed by some kind of family shield, that I could distinctly make out. It was elaborate. 

He cleared his throat and I looked up. I said, "I hope you don't have a problem with me writing about Pollack's and Collin's conclusions regarding Sale and the original OITC. When I talk about stuff like that, I'm just trying to get the truth of the matter out of the discussion. This issue will be boiled down to its truth."

Crayford said, "You know I have no problem with the truth, Al. I live for the truth to be told. It's what I do. It makes my job so much easier." He put a fist to his mouth and yawned into it. "I'm tired, Al. Frankly, I'm exhausted to my core. I would like to sleep for a month. But there's too much work to be done. No time to be thinking about myself." He tipped his hat, and he walked away. I watched him out of the corner of my eye, as he briskly walked south, down the tree lined path toward Beacon Street, and then out of sight.


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