Targeted
Massachusetts

Sacha Souter

May 25, present day 2024 (Ti diary)

I succumb to my bed, on my first lonesome night in Wivelstone. A life I’m forced to live on the hoof, constantly swerving shame on social media, gang stalking, deadly electromagnetic hostilities.

From the sweetest reverence of my prayers, I am dragged back by their ignorance, invocations for my beloved daughter’s happiness.

But she’s lost to me because of them, only fake news memories occupy her neurons now, a tragic battleground. Where our pure love was murdered in her heart and mind by the illegal use of neuro weapons.

The shock of the all-too-familiar sensation, an aggressive electromagnetic ‘kneader’ pummeling my vulva becomes self-evident. It motors away at high-speed hammering, then upwards towards my stomach.

I scamper to my feet, terrified, fully aware of the irrevocable damage it does in seconds. I bear 3-inch horizontal scars they call ‘fissures.’

My torso is now slack, full of dissolved muscle tissue and plasma, no tenacity left, its structure destroyed, so it folds upon itself in unsightly formations. All in a bid to break my resolve, break my self-confidence forever.

Francois Justina want to steal away my sexy, so they can gloat, laugh, and mock me, make me a figure of derision, ridicule in public. Francois is the man in charge of the operation—he calls me his ‘bolsa.’ He’s the DFE conquistador from Pfizer that Clare Hill sold me on to while I was living in Mexico.

‘Malito,’ chant the dinlos, happy they’ve destroyed my once-beautiful body. The script informs me they’re eaten up with spite, jealousy. My buttocks are scorched by phazer tech right here in this sweet suburban setting. The sick tormentors then attack my eyeball sockets, Francois’ favorite go-to.

All in a bid to psyche their trapped lab rat with full suicide-inducing brutality, courtesy of the growing alliances between Pfizer, Nickle, Halo.

He mentions football gangs—Chelsea, West Ham, Millwall, Arsenal. New recruits they mention are apparently “dirty, nasty, useful.” “Yeah, Claire Hill’s bought them all in—criminal nepotism favors evil.”

 

“It’s time to finish off the job on her. We need to kill her off then reanimate her.” “We got the ability, we just need the opportunity.”

His vocal tone, taut with well-practiced menace, oozing idiotic hatred. Although I’ve never met or wronged him, it’s his mobber’s script to create action potential, distress me so they can decode me.

This is the hell of being neuronally monitored.