Category Archives: Atrocities

Poverty, a death cult Xmas present

Two thousand and fourteen was a difficult year for me, I fell victim to the most repugnant betrayal of all which through deception landed me completely destitute; broke penniless and street homeless for an entire month; frozen in severest of disparity from 17th December to the 19th of January.

Whilst held up at my friends crowded flat in Vauxhall, London I began talking to pagans online through Facebook social networking website; eventually I met a woman named Alanna (real name Denise Wyatt) who not only claimed she was pagan but also a Witch; after some brief dialog she suggested she could help solve my problem of homelessness.

After communicating with her through messenger for a few days we seemed to get along. From browsing through her FB postings it was clear that she had attended various events of the Celtic Christian “Loyal Arthurian war band” druid order. Having been both a devout pagan and worked with / raised money for a homeless charity I wrongly assumed that she was genuine in her offer to help me.

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Torture at sector 14, Gandhinagar

During my travels across Gujarat I heard the term ‘pagal’ which in Gujarati language meant ‘madness’. Amongst priestly castes of Hinduism the name ‘Gandhi’ is also referred to as madness; exemplifying those who were unfortunate to make visit to the Gujarati capital Gandhinagar who more than often if not always returned deranged, mad.

Near the beginning of Melton Road in the city of Leicester there is a Statue of Gandhi, if you sit observing this memorial for long enough you’ll notice Gujarati Indians spitting at him as they walk past. Gandhi being of similar appearance to Jesus the Beggar was used by the British empire through instruction of the Tavistock Institute to break up, destroy India’s Hindu caste system.

After failing to read to the Bala Tripura Yantra my stay at the temple was designated over; a few days after I heard to local women talking in English outside my room door. Responding to a question by the other woman regarding my stay at the Temple trust Guest house the other women stipulated that “I’d be going to a place where people went who were deemed to close to God”.

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Covered in Excrement – West Smithfield Rotunda Garden

I usually used to check the places where I slept even if I’d been and slept at them the night before. This time I was so tired from the long anxious day I fell collapsed in the side of a bush without checking the area. At 3am I awoke, my dizzy head felt strange and they were flies around me, blue bottles. I sat up and ran my fingers through my deadlocks to feel something sticky was in them. Focusing my weary eyes I turned around and glared down to find I huge puddle of light brown diarrhoea that I’d evidently rolled in during my troubled sleep.

I started to psychically cough and wretch, my head, neck and face were all covered in stinking excrement. I rummaged through my possessions collecting them together, got onto my feet and walked in search of a toilet to access running water to clean myself. I walked searching in vain two hours without finding a convenience to wash, tired I stooped on to a bench and attempted to calm anxiety by focusing on my breathing.

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Grievous bodily harm (GBH) Bayswater, London

Seven o’clock, the street lights are spotlighting the rain drops relentlessly falling from above. I’m chilled cold, clothes are sopping wet, sight darkens as I rest my head upon glass. It’s evening and I’m tired from being constantly moved on since early morning.

The doorway I rested in is filthy and barely deep enough to keep out the oncoming sidewards rain. A man passing by glances over, he looks at my clothes, then my face, he glares wildly whilst forcing air through his thick lips into his yellow teeth. He pushed a comment “Why don’t you put some trousers on?”; I picked myself up and responded “f*ck off, you put some trousers on”. Enraged he yelled “you don’t tell me to go, this is my yard, if your here when I get back am going to beat you”, dismayed but not moved I spoke firmly “you’re not going to beat anybody” in reply. He then slouched off as I sank back into the darkness of the doorway and huddled up to keep warm.

My eyes started to lower as my mind wondered through passages of memories; as the outside light dimmed the dream projector warmed and lit it’s lens.

Then a sudden crack into my cold nose, I felt paper, a rolled up newspaper being used as a baton, thud thud thud as it rammed into the side of my face. I looked up, he’d returned and was attacking me. He withdrew, threw the paper down then ran fly kicked me in the face; resulting impact broke my nose sidewards. I threw my up my right arm to shield further oncoming blows from his boot but he kicked and kicked relentlessly until my right radius bone cracked splitting my forearm in half.

He paused out of breath, then gaining momentum proceeded to kick me in other places. I shouted “you broke my arm in half”; responding he said “he would do the other arm if I didn’t leave”. I drooped semi- unconscious onto a wet paving slab in front of me. I laid my blooded face in that place for what must have been two or three hours in pouring rain. I motioned passers by with my good arm for help, observing pedestrians smirked and laughed whilst others remarked to each other but did nothing.

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