DeMohrenschildt, meanwhile, had beaten up his wife, been in and out of a mental institution, and reportedly had, in his last days, given himself over to the care of a mysterious doctor much like Dr. J.H. Earnshaw. In those days, I traveled back and forth repeatedly to stay at my father's house in Avoca, Michigan, alone with him now, no longer with the comforting arms of The Russian Girl. It must have been during one of those trips that it happened. Earnshaw, still intent on imposing CIA MK-ULTRA mind-control conditioning on me, though we had long since killed John Kennedy, took me into his office again. "You don't like Nazis now?" he said. Drunken by his poisonous injections again, I launch into a slurring rant. "Come on," he says, "There's something I want you to do."
In the car, on the way, they program me with the
words that will trigger the post-hypnotic commands that will end the life of the now chronicly suicidal
Baron George deMohrenschildt. They take me to a phone booth and dial
deMohrenschildt's number. DeMohrenschildt answers, and I identify myself. He is congenial,
kind, pleased to hear from me: he always was.
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