You might have noticed that, in this bleak time of endless war where great Americans are so threatened that they pre-emptively kill others in order to save the oil fields and copper mines of the middle east from the rape of foreign invaders, that there are scumbags that exploit children.
And even worse scumbags exploit the narrative of saving the children, and the story of Little Red Riding Hood with horrible disrespect and impunity-and that there is a huge and nearly uncontrollable surge in pedophiles across our lands, and especially, in Our Town.
But don’t worry!! I have come to save the world from the hordes of pedophiles that fill our minds, and occupy our thoughts every waking minute. I have come to Save the Children!
You can guess the rest: my doors kicked in, locks picked, car tampered with, sting, blackmail, and setup attempts, friends caught in whisper campaigns, my ever growing dossier because I refuse to be intimidated out of my privacy and then, my first amendment rights
Who is Christopher M. Flood, pedophile fighter of Sierra Madre, CA?
Once upon a time, I tried to change the world for the better, in an era where saving the world was impossible, and I was a draft dodger 20 years too late, at a time when the draft was being phased out in favor of the volunteer mercenary military. I was an artist, a peacenik, and self employed at 18 years old in this era where even art was dying, and Bukowski slept under my pillow with a foul and rotting smell.
And, I met a girl in downtown Los Angeles, who had a mysterious and hidden gang chasing her across the country-they seemed to know where she was at all times.She also had wild and unbelievable stories of cops raping her as a teen runaway, and how her own father- a county sheriff in Minnesota, couldn’t or wouldn’t save her; or her one minute being served, surrounded with fruit, as a main course at secret buffets in San Francisco, as limousines came and went; then, the next day, on the run in to Hollywood because mysterious people had threatened her.
While you are free to throw away your own rights, you are not free to throw away mine, in the name of chasing terrorists, whistle blowers, journalists, pedophiles, or anyone else.
Stories of strange pimps who brainwashed her, and horrible stays in child prisons and foster care, and more. I couldn’t believe any of it at the time, but now, I know this is all true and possible.The eighties were interesting indeed; both a depressing void of social movements, and yet opportunity to explore a society that was deteriorating to what we see today in an America devoid of Constitutional rule.
This is where my story began, and ended for a long time became entombed in other narratives, and those, with deep state agendas. I tried to save a girl, another and another, and I failed them all. Then, I tried to save a little girl- my own daughter, from great and huge monsters, with state titles and official letterhead, and I couldn’t. These girls died, only to be reborn as mesera’s and dance hall girls, single mothers and state wards one minute, working an airbase in Colorado the next; sleeping with psychologists and child protection workers, senators and cops for cash and safety, or hiding out in motels and low income housing, looking at their babies as a paycheck, at least for awhile ’til, you know, they get on their feet.
A mesera is basically a waitress who has the ability to earn extra tax free income, slightly short of prostitution, slightly on the down side of regular waitress. all of her kids are US military progeny.Though I thought it strange many years ago when my daughter’s mother ( who was a teen runaway for most of her teen years, and also a sex trafficking survivor) claimed that she was being pursued by hidden gangs who could track her across the country, I no longer think this is an unusual claim, as my daughter is now a mesera, with five kids on welfare, working an airbase in Colorado. Her name is Nikki.
And, I tried again and again to fight bigger and bigger monsters, and I consorted not with the devil, but with the daughters of night; with Strife, Pseudos and Ponos, Ate, Dysnomia, and Makhai,these goddesses of war and lies, anarchy and ruin- these the many daughters who leap, no doubt, from Pandora’s box. And I can say too that I have been raped by the Virgin Mary as well, because hell hath no fury like the wrath of Catholic myths meeting logic and the law. In my case, that collision was named William, and his sister Meghan.
These who live in mythological worlds are never quite happy, never quite fulfilled in this or any other generation, and again, I failed miserably at heroism, because other mythological creations were in play at all times, and me, unarmed, could no longer fight them as a mere man. So I became another thing-that’s how every good story begins, isn’t it? Failed heroes succumbing to temptations and goddesses-and awakening with their hair cut off, or losing a foreskin here and here? Or how peering into the void as the void peers back can hypnotize you until you fall in? How fighting monsters, you must become one first?
But know that becuse you are reading this, I failed, no matter how hard I tried, as no man can stand against systemic and institutional forces of narrative control, much less the onslaught of narrative and legal fictions. YetI could not despite myself become an actual monster, ever. So, I tried to become a journalist instead, and found myself followed and monitored, maligned and cast out of the Paradise that this great country surely could be, if only….
From telling herstory, to telling my own and setting history straight
So I had gone to college after years of having been stigmatized as a “dead beat dad,” and worse, because I had gone through the deeply scarring experience of being a single father who worked his way off of welfare, and, despite the best attempts of courts, cops and deadbeat mothers everywhere, I defeated every stigmatic labeling and systemic bullying they had to offer, and still kept custody and care of my children.
But as a human being, I began to deteriorate on a deep spiritual level, as these burdens of shame and blame are indeed more than one person can bear.On one hand, the institutional structure of my country desired that I become a tuck driver or a carpenter, and on the other, I felt it imperative that I learn to use words, and tell stories, for which i was soundly punished-because what is a story worth anyways? How can you tax THAT? And certainly, paper airplanes cannot defeat our ever growing list of bad guys and other sordid enemies.
The only way I could fight these mythological monsters and the real people who wield them and rule my society was to engage them at their level- at the level of their mythological creation. No one hates to see myths destroyed more than those who create them, uphold them, or enforce them, and I became at that time a target of further provocations and deviant attacks by nefarious players who derive profit from both the control of children, but also the control of the narrative fictions and myths by which they manipulate the lives and outcomes of those children.
You see, in that era, America’s first experiment with the unholy marriage of the traditionalists in the churches with gender feminist jurisprudence and modern eugenics; an era of modern baby farming and single mother subsidies, it was unheard of for a father to gain custody of children, much less a poor father, and an artist at that. And then, much less a poor father who fought false charges of child abuse, and charges of being a dead beat, and charges of domestic violence, and soundly defeated each one without ever going to trial. The truth, indeed sets one free- but only as free as one can be in a country built on such odd creations of defamation and rule by lies and myths.
I had been on some level, ritually abused by the processes of a society that was ruled by the odd paradoxes of priestly and rabbinical orders, and the collusion of the Jewish-Catholic-traditionalist social order and the enforcement schemes that date back millennia. And, in the courts, and in my own soul, I overcame their superstitions, and their intolerant and often existentially deviant methods of social controls that perpetuate their Babylonian and Roman rule, which is the kiss of death for those who they seek to use as ritual Azazelo’s; Marilyn Monroe’s, Jean Seberg’s, Malcolm X’s and Gary Webb’s.
And so, in my deteriorated moral state, I began to study the psychological and sociological concepts and ideas with which they ruled the world,it’s institutions and ideals, and with which they justify the bombing of babies all over it.I skipped any opportunity to study morality, because, well, because this era has none.In college, I met Hunter S. Thompson (again) in the era of his impending near suicide, and I met Abraham Mazlow, and Freud, Franz Boaz.
I also met Stanley Milgram, who demonstrated that most people will do anything they are told to do by a person in authority, including electrocuting people to the point of having a heart attack.
Here- meet Stanley Milgram’s experiment, which, in a recent replication in Poland, saw some 90% of participants pushing the button every time they were ordered to do so:
I also consorted with much maligned and hated men like John Kennedy-O’Toole, who wrote Confederacy of Dunces, and Henry Miller who famously put the word fuck into our vernacular-me, alongside them, munching our way through life, or nailing stuff with men like Edward Abbey.
And too, I have had many pleasures with other goddesses, who walked in the realm of the natural and the real: Margaret Meade, and Anais Nin- Rachel Carson, Isabel Allende’, and Zora Neale Hurston, while carefully avoiding others who remind me all too much of those mythological goddesses of strife and discord, authors like Louisa May Alcott, Jane Austin, and Virginia Wolf, for whom their certainly is a room of their own, I just didn’t want to share it with them and all of the dead “othered” babies that are hidden in their hefty bosoms and gilded war chests, as I cannot bear the smell of rotting flesh, hidden by perfume.
The Accidental Terrorist, the journalist, the whistle blower, and the nearly mythical pedophile are what America fears most. Or, CointelPro 2.0
I was once an activist and a a peace marcher until I realized that I was specifically targeted by photographers- that one incident in particular stands out- where a Pakistani singled me out and asked me if she could photograph me. There were many other incidents from that era, but this one stands out, because she accidentally called me by my given name. That was in 2002.
I became a journalist, so that I could tell you this story, but I have been called worse. One thing I recall from journalism school is that the average American’s attention span has been reduced to six seconds, down from forty seconds sometime long ago.And I realized that all of those words that these above had spoken to me became too complicated to explain to others who generally could care less, or who suffered attention span or C-Span disorders, I studied journalism, and learned how to put two sentence paragraphs together in order to streamline the message into the inside joke that journalism is- the joke of the of the 6 W’s: who, what, why, when, where, and how.
I edited the largest monthly college news paper in America, then called the City College News. In doing this, during the beginning of the “war on terror”- which we now know as the fruition of Dwight Eisenhower’s warning about the military industrial complex taking over our entire nation- and as we all watched a largely false and pretentious and divisive war on human beings waged elsewhere, I encountered a story which was bigger than any I had to report ever before: a story about a terrorist, in the era where we actually believed we were under attack by foreign enemies, and not, in fact, the total systemic corruption that we see today.
I was the first to have interviewed Mohammed Warsame just before his term in custody, held under the longest SAM provisions existent at that time. SAM’s-Special Administrative Measures- are those provisions in the federal courts where those branded as terrorists are held in isolation, coerced into becoming informants, denied the rights to see their families, and especially nefarious-systematically denied the right to counsel. Here- meet Mohammed Warsame, the accidental terrorist, and the first of many FBI created ‘terror plotters,’ courtesy of The Nation magazine:
How Mohammed Warsame Became an Accidental ‘Terrorist’: In the wake of 9/11, prosecutors have embraced “special administrative measures” to keep terrorism suspects guilty until proven otherwise. By David Thomas
Warsame was painted as a real bad guy, but those who encountered him felt he was at worst, awkward and odd, and that he smelled bad in the way many from his desert culture do-he smelled of sweat and rose water. Warsame also tutored my friend James, in calculus, proudly declaring the word “algebra” to be descended from an Arabic word “al Jibra.” James is a white Irish Catholic from a good neighborhood, who later became an FBI informant, and though he drew benefit from this ‘terrorist,’ he was never charged with aiding the enemy.
And Warsame tutored many other Americans in al Jibra, and calculus as well, none of whom were ever charged as terrorists. And he worked as a librarian at my college, and shared a desk with my friend Laura Roach. His actions to all who knew him were at best, well-meaning, and at worst, bumbling in the cross cultural way. Amongst the Smali’s that knew him, he was thought to have buufiis, r desert sickness; and his crime was that he attended the al Khalden terror training camp, and later, taught English to illiterates at a hospital. He was harmless by all accounts of people who knew him.
This was the story that landed in my college news office. And at the time, I was driving content about the Nixon years, and past practices of the FBI, like COINTELPRO, and how they literally stalked people to death, like Jean Seberg.
But some stories are plainly too much for one person to bear, and I didn’t have enough money for a lawyer as I was just a college journalist. But who needs a lawyer when you incur armies of FBI and DHS little green people following you everywhere-as most of them know the law, right? Who needs lawyers anymore, when phones and internet switches act as virtual courtrooms full of lawyers, right?
Image credit: http://www.waxpoetics.com/blog/features/articles/insidious-tale-actress-jean-seberg-fbis-cointelpro-film-kill/
So, I tell you these things above, because when discussing the state of affairs that we see today, where in fact, we now have evidence that our government has been wiretapping the entire nations communications since 9/11 (and before actually, as some records indicate that ATT has been doing this going back to 1986), it is important to caution against labeling persons, or personal narratives as “paranoid,”because much of what we see today in the form of warrant-less surveillance, and organized gangs of security contractors stalking citizens here in America, for fun and profit is in fact, something that seemed impossible to the ordinary American just 15 years ago.
After all- we have rights! And we have a Constitution! Due Process! All things come from privacy first-nothing can exist if privacy does not exist.
For some that may be true, as rights are thought by some to be ‘that which you can afford to defend,” while others use the more colloquial definition of “that which are inherent in the condition of human being, and which are unalienable.” It seems that some wish American’s to be split along these lines, and it is here, at this fault, where we have met each other, you and I.
Unabashedly, and without apology, I inform you that I belong in the latter camp, because this is a country founded on the Constitutional rights that were formulated in privacy, and because in actuality, my journalism training began in 1971, and my first formal experience with journalism was in the fifth grade, as I took special classes for the ‘gifted and talented,” while other kids studied other things.
Alienation is a key theme of my story, and there is a sociological phrase which describes my experience: social death by stigmatization. By 2008, my life had become fractured by the constant tracking and tracing of my body, the hacking and tracking of my email and my associations and assemblies, and certainly my speech was monitored via my cell phone signal, or my computer IP. And this culminated one night with a part time cop and security guard shot me in the back with a Taser, which nearly killed me. Tasers you see, are deadly force weapons, though they have been framed in the dialogue as something ‘more humane.’
It was also in 2008 when I first confirmed that I was a constant target of what is called HUMINT collection, which stands for Human Intelligence. I was a fly under the microscope of many hidden agencies and local police departments. While the first clues I had along the way- starting around 1998, and then, with a great and noticeable increase in the year before 9/11, and a remarkable series of events in 2005, ’08 clinched it for me- I had noticed many of the same faces in and around my environment for weeks, which culminated in me being shot in the back.
I became paranoid, and highly aware that certain faces I saw in some places, appeared in other places. There was the tall brown haired guy with the big red truck, the Eddy Bauer loafers, and the strange gait that indicated he was likely not a basket-baller in high school, but rather, one of those unique nerds with height and brain.
There was the woman named Celeste, a shrew faced and skinny person who, at around 55 plus years old, and 120 lbs was nearly breast-less. The one time she spoke to me was in 2010, when she swiped by me in a thrift store and whispered ” We know what you read,”and inferred that she was one of those who had privy information to the break in’s at my various dwellings, where books were stolen. Books, of all things, stolen. And, sometimes, their contents or titles repeated back to me, in secret brush passes with complete strangers.The many many email hacks, which I documented along the way. In short, my life became a theater of operations for as yet un-named persons and agencies in what is called “security theater.”
You can guess the rest: my doors kicked in, locks picked, car tampered with, sting, blackmail, and setup attempts, friends caught in whisper campaigns, my ever growing dossier because I refuse to be intimidated out of my privacy and then, my first amendment right (which is really, yours too, and your kids) and yes, my phone was tapped as we all know now, thanks to Edward Snowden and others with courage enough to stand up for democracy as others sell it to the highest bidder.
There were the middle eastern types,the Somali’s, and the conspicuous and obvious entrapment schemes and brush passes with informants who had all kinds of ‘plots’ to try to ensnare me in; ones ranging from the tall and very obvious Somali/Kenyan man to the sweaty faced and very methamphetamine fueled Israeli-faced guy who rushed me out of the blue one day at a computer store, urgently asking me ” hey do you work with the CIA? Man your language! You must work for the CIA!”
This is what the hidden investigation is, and I have been subjected to it for decades, and the evidence of that is shortly forthcoming. You see, I exist in the paradox whereby it would take literally millions of dollars to bring these operators and their operations to liht, and gain justice for myself, or vindicate my narrative, which I don’t have. But what I do have is your eyes upon me, and my private affairs, everywhere I go, for decades, courtesy of the broken, un-Constitutional policing methods and internet subversion’s that we now know as the NSA spying on all Americans exposure to the light of day.
While you are free to throw away your own rights, you are not free to throw away mine, in the name of chasing terrorists, whistle blowers, journalists, pedophiles, or anyone else. And because some clearly profit from exploiting narratives of various shades of truth, I introduce myself to you now as your neighbor, and my story contrasts sharply with the official story.
And I am here now, my back is against a mountain, and I am tapping out for now on my introductory bio, but by way of introduction, understand that whatever you hear about me, and whatever the ‘official sources’ say, divide it by what you see above and go from there. And keep in mind that I have met the enemy, and it is those who believe officials-thse who press the button in the Milgram experiment and do as they are told or else; but the enemy is NOT some rando pedophile in Sierra Madre, CA.
The only place for children in America is in a Constitutionally protected environment, and even God won’t save those who don’t protect that; and without which there is no safety, no security, and no justice. How do I know this? Because I have loved and lost kids to the schemes of those who ruin their ability to stand and fight against those who are bullying them from birth. And I won’t do that again. See you in court, the last right any American has when all others have been subverted by social forces and bad social policy. But even worse, bad actors in society who hide behind the weakest of all excuses and pretexts to destroy our Constitution.
And I’ll keep my eyes open for you- I seem to be ahead of the curve, according to my neighbor, Dave, the neighborhood block captain, and an integral part of the Christopher M. Flood monitoring, and wiretapper team. Everywhere I go, I have them to depend on to know what I am up to. Actual pedophiles are nowhere to be seen anymore except Long Beach and those other less self righteous Catholic areas, for the most part, and last I heard, they mostly work in, around, for and because it’s for “the children.”