It was my experience that the images he portrayed on stage were nothing like how he was in private. To demonstrate this, I'll share what I remembered; but, before I do, I will tell you that retrieving these memories was very sensorially uncomfortable, due to the completeness of the olfactory portion of the memory. You'll understand as you read further.
It was late at night when I entered Elvis's room. He was lying in bed, still adorned with the gold jewelry and white suit he wore in concert. I watched as he finished his room service dinner and then I waited while he threw up in the bathroom. He was very mad at himself because he was so fat and he said he had to lose weight for the shows. I guess he made himself throw up. All I really know is that I overheard him throwing up in the bathroom and when he came back to the bed, he smelled like vomit. It wasn't long before he jumped up again and I followed him as he went back into the bathroom. He cried as he stood in front of the mirror, and hitting the counter with both hands he screamed, 'I hate my life! Everything's out of control and now you want me to f-k you and I can't! I'm ruined! I'm a failure!'
I put my hand on his back in support and then on the back of his neck. As he felt my touch, his head hung down even further over the sink and he cried, 'God, I'm a mess. I don't know what happened, just all of a sudden, I'm destroyed.' Then he screamed, 'What is wrong? What is wrong with me!' and he started pulling his hair. I pulled him up. When he turned around I hugged him and he just kept crying and crying and almost collapsed in my arms. I guided him back to bed and helped him lay down. He was sideways on the bed but I couldn't get him straightened out so as programmed, I lay next to him and rubbed his chest. His shirt was opened and his very hairy chest turned me on, but he was passed out. His mouth was open and he was breathing but he was totally out of it. I covered him with the bedspread and tiptoed out of the room.
My father was standing outside, just down the hallway. He was wearing a beige suit and when he snapped his fingers, with the hand wearing the diamond pinky ring, I listened intently to all the directions he commanded and he told me to follow him. He guided me downstairs to my room with Craig, unlocked and opened the door and waited for me to get inside before he hit me high in my back with a stun gun. I collapsed to the floor and he pulled the door shut. He almost slammed me in the door. I just lay there awhile and then when, 'I came around' (that's what they called it), I crawled to the bathroom and managed to get into the bathtub. The soothing water revived me but I felt very sick, drugged and out of it. I had trouble keeping my eyes open but managed to get out of the tub, dry and put on a white nightie to wear to bed. Slowly and wobbly, I shakily made my way to the bed and got in next to Craig. I felt very sick for the next two days and had trouble eating. I felt exhausted and very nauseated, but had no way to access my own brain in order to know why.
After awhile Elvis couldn't function any longer. Henry and his buddies laughed and said that Elvis was like the tin man, all rusted up and ready for the junkyard. They waited for him to become seriously dysfunctional from the increasing amount of drugs prescribed by his doctors. Then they 'stopped his ticker for him so he didn't have to suffer no more.' I think Frank and his friends were in on the 'do in.'
Bob called it 'Playing Goldilocks and the Three Bears.' And he had me play that game with him and his friends in Vegas and other places. Some nights in Vegas, I'd play Goldilocks looking for a good bed with Dean Martin, Gene Kelly, Mickey Rooney (until Kelly was born). Mickey Rooney is, among other things, a pedophile and was afraid of publicly being caught with a child but he felt safe having a slave child. He thought he wouldn't be caught.
Gene Kelly liked to do the ole' soft-shoe for me. He always smelled of a different sort of weird cologne like Au de Bamboo. It was spicy and he'd wear a silk robe and dance around like he was in some musical play, before he sat down on the edge of the bed for me to attend to him. I took off his robe, kneeled down and gave him oral sex while he was sitting up. Half way through I gently pushed him back on the bed with the instructions to, 'lay back so you can totally relax and enjoy. That's what my command is for you.' And as he came in my mouth, I ate it like it was frosting, as my programming dictated, 'good to the last drop,' and finally I looked deeply in his eyes and said, 'You were delicious.'
Nearly asleep he said, 'Thank you, please let yourself out.' So I did. But I didn't know where to go so I just sat down on the top of the large staircase leading downstairs.
My mom came to get me. She walked up the stairs dressed in a light brown fur jacket and a beige brown knit dress with sandled high heels and took me by the hand and led me downstairs. When I was really out of it she led me almost like I was blind. I can remember hearing her charm bracelet jingling. She often put my left arm under hers and 'walked me places.' One night Frank Sinatra intercepted her in an elevator while she was walking me back to the room, and roughed her up in front of me, to show us both who was in charge. Due to mind control, my mother still doesn't remember this or any other of the traumatic experiences that were done to her in order to keep us all under control.
Some of the same factions of the Mob that were connected to the Kennedy’s were also connected to President Nixon, Reagan and other presidents. Obviously this faction had become connected to national politics long before I came onto the scene and was already in tight, running a lot of business through the government and taking full advantage of political knowledge, insight, and position. I know because I ran messages from the Mob to U. S. presidents and back again for years.
Key Biscayne was another location where I was connected to the Mob and was told that there was no getting out — or so they said. There was some guy they called «Freddie» and other mobsters who were politically connected. BeBe Rebozo was connected to the Mob and to Nixon and he was public but not as mob-connected as the inner Mob. It was almost like BeBe was an ambassador to the Mob.
The mob guys scared me because for the most part they got what they wanted, any way they wanted and, often, that meant hurting me for information. One time they pinched my fingers to the point of almost smashing them. I didn't nor couldn't respond and so they kept increasing the torture. There were times when they nearly killed me trying to gain information I carried. Usually they lacked the technical knowledge of my codes, keys and triggers and didn't possess the technological sophistication to understand my programming. So, they couldn't get as much out of me as others who knew that I was a robot and could access me in that way.
One time when the Mob was interrogating me they tied me to a chair and one guy slapped me while another guy in a leather jacket asked me questions. I overheard him say, 'These bastards are selling their own women. How low can you stoop?' It was incidents like these which told me that at least someone, even if it was the Mob, had some sort of humanity left within its membership.
One time, mob guys put a needle into my eye to try to get me to talk, but it didn't help. The needle must have hit a nerve and my whole body jolted back. They couldn't understand how a woman could endure so much torture and they began to 'respect' me. They just didn't understand that I wasn't really brave, I just couldn't respond due to years of conditioning and sophisticated programming that rendered me completely dissociative and not in control of myself. By the time they figured this out they had already tortured me half to death. I was a total robot, programmed not to respond to pain or torture, and there were many mob-connected meetings in which I was involved in Vegas, Tahoe, Reno, Key Biscayne and other places. By the time they understood more about how to get information from me, my access routes or codes ended up getting passed around. My husband just stepped aside and let them have me, as he was programmed to do. There was never anyone to protect me. The Mob involvement began in my early teens and continued for years.
Sometimes when they would get me into a room in Vegas they would accuse me of 'carrying a wire' but I wasn't. They would strip me to check and some goon would end up raping me. They didn't understand yet the level of sophisticated programming that allowed me to record everything I was hearing, via mind files and photographic memory. Later, my programmers would instill messages that were to 'kick in' when I was accessed by the Mob. Then, upon my return, I was activated to deliver a message to them and they acted shocked when I would deliver the message. The Mob often thought I was trying to get to some of the rich tycoons that sat at the Baccarat tables. I was usually sent to target someone there but they didn't know who or why. They never seemed to know that I wasn't ever operating from my own agenda. What they had to offer the group I was working for was minimal. The Council was going for higher stakes and most of the time, they saw these mobsters as worker- bees. But they all had their places in the pecking order. Over the years I was known in Vegas by the Mob there. Some mobsters were connected to Bob Hope in Palm Springs and others to Dean Martin and Frank Sinatra.
I used to be afraid that they would kill my children or me, but it will never stop me from doing what I know is right, now that I'm no longer under mind control. Somehow or other they knew everybody and controlled
