Caves of Porto

by Ronald C. Kaiser, Dec. 2019

I really liked Lisboa in a way – for Portugese circumstances. It definteley housed some remains of a civilized culture and human society. Heavily under siege but still in authentic existence. This human existence was always undermined when it showed its subtleness and then harassed and polluted. Agents of the AOI showed their sneaking intruding heads in diverse forms: High ranking French police officers with frigid wives chewing olives disgusting slow in front of me in the camping ground restaurant who were dispersed by some mobile phone throwing attack at bus walls. German longhaired freaks of the verfassungsschutz with oily hair and greasy smile that needed to be corrected by a rusty pocket knife, but nobody wanted to do that since they were not worth it – I could not stand their presence as anybody else - one of the best defense mechanisms against attacks of targets. French and Portugese cyclists roaming around in the woodlands at the outskirts of town with many smallpaths that lead to only one thing or maybe two: anal intercourse between men and exchange of faeces in different forms. What? Yes, that is the New Time and New People.

Mobile phone technicians and associated bus drivers building very low towers inside town at squares and directing their ejaculate, beams of deadly rays to meeting places of the working class in housing projects and freaks camping grounds just for the sake that these people were not wanted by the unkown „we“ they always mentioned. The bus drivers always reported poor peoeple and freaks with backpacks to them and the police so they could aim correctly with their ray machines and surround them at night. And many more I did not meet. But there was resistance by sticking to human grounds in little gestures against creatures the WSB, the Burroughs namend Mugwumps and else. There was still traditional cuisine at the little bars and even the camping restaurant and little talks with a human touch, a little bit, but still it had not been eradicated completely yet.

In the end I got the axe, that was obvious from the beginning since I had no army, no crew, no contacts and no real overview about their viciousness. Only an old Portuguese sportsguy from the Rhinelands – and he worked for the police in the end so fuck that.

But at least it kept me together, the Lisboa. In comparison to the Algarve and Fishermens Trail disaster with AOI couples and myriads of German AOI in freak campers that lead me to bizarre but successful moves by not washing myself for a week and longer and by doing so forcing them into submission and letting me travel tiketless and dining without bill. Got you with that, skankers! They respected that, if I had used shit instead of sun blocker cream I could have joined their ranks, but I did not give them that, I did not touch that line, fuck you for even thinking that I would touch that. But I had to leave The Lisboa, they encircled me in the woods by foot and bikes, harassed me in the camping ground where I ate and so on, the usual dsplay of modern behaviour brought to us by the very core of the AOI and its dsciples.

Porto was a magnet of authenticity in the eighties, when we roamed around Galicia, heading to Muros, the holy freak land and enjoyed a kind of freedom that represents an obscene deviance today when any kind of human behaviour that is not legitimized by the AOI and its shadow governments leads to harassement of the worst by intruding Mugwumps and other insects by courtesy of the AOI. In Porto boatmen in typical old fashioned sailor customes blue and white could be met then in an really old style harbour with tavernes as rusty old nails as in Sale in Morocco of Hassan II, but different, without any oriental taste in the very west of Europe. Jean Genet was in the air then. But fully impregnated with the horrible winds of the Atlantic ocean. Quotatiens out of Querelle crossed our minds then, even that of my girl with me there, who just had a glimpse of it. They had left it undisturbed in such a purity that it felt like a movie set, but was real. The AOI had not arrived yet. They had just changed the government so we could not adore it anymore but left the souls of the humans intact. That is the case of any culture shock: somethings feels so real but at the same time strange, that you think it is a movie set but you know it is not. Can't escape. That's why it is called shock, it traumatizes and that is again the real cause of fear of travelling: it is a real disease that might catch you and it never goes away. I only disappears when you actively take part in that strange world and interact not only but act out. I don't give a shit anymore that it is „another culture, not us“ or „you should behave always like a passive half participant.“ It makes you fucking sick in the long run. You need to play along to shake of the culture shok if it gets you.

But Porto had a grip in us in the mid eighties for being impenetrable and oblique a bit with its grotesque steel structures over rivers and seaarms and i town. That were the blesseings of the „Old Times“, as the AOI called it, you had to conquer a really different culture, even in Europe, at the very west of it in Portugal, since it was strictly catholic and strictly a seeman and fishermen culture. Not a mason or a shithead in sight in 85, believe me, except the US ruining the politics as my father had told me eight years ago but you could not feel or hear or see them. There were absolutely no traffic lights in Porto then, traffic was outrageosly anarchic and half of the men were driving dead drunk as me in our old Citroen DS. I went straight out of the Porto caves where they manufacture Port wine into the car as anybody else and coul not find the keyhole of the fucking car. My girlfriend helped me with that, even more pissed then I was from about 2 bottles of heavy port each after 3 or 4 runs thru the cellars with me, starting around noon until evening. I started the engine, the hydraulics went up and we ht teh road of Porto as anyboydy else in evening with squealing tyres, traffic accidents all around us. „ You should use alcohol as your favourite drug“ she said, „you function perfectly then. Look at the accidents of those assholes here, wrecks all around, you are better.“ I knew what this meant, that i was tuned in perfectly, I had taken the piss of the Tawny Guides assholes in the caves before without getting beaten up, what everybody expected since I asked them again and again where the fucking evolution is and what happened to Genet here, skankers. But we were extraordinary drunk and pissed, what they liked and we speeded out of town without damages searching for some wasteland for an old fashioned seeing thru in her vagina. That was no problem there, you just had to do it. Park your old French ruin of a car soemwhere an fuck your lady from behind leaning againts the car in the setting sun. Sailors and shady assholes there and all the poor souls around did not care a bit. The hangover rembered of a heroin withdrawel in Bangkok in VS guesthose courtesy by Tony W. , („where is my pipe, where is my China White you Thai slihole“ „No Pankao for you Tony, no more, you smell like latrine“, so don't do this shit with Port, it s pure horror, but the high is unbelievabe.

Those were my thougts travelling by train up north in 2018, no more smelling like an old mule, since I decided to give them a chance to behave as what we learned to be human and took a shower after teaching them to show respect. When somebody bullies you in such a mode, that you do not want to wash, leave it like that. Do not come back to point zero, it hits back. So I was travelling by train nice and clean, where they tried to steal my notebook all the time and always disconnected it from the wire in the fucking train since that is only semilegal anymore in Portugal, to charge your notebook. You could write something, the CDU, the communist-green party coalition, courtesy by Germany would not like. So bribe your way into a fancy restaurant with a 30 Euro price per plate, use the wire and the WIFI for hours and stink so enormously that you just walk out without paying anything. Let them pay the price for their CDU bullshit, or what ever three letter word the AOI is using here or there. Works in Portugal as in Mexico when you crawl backwards on a public raod naked high on mescaline or coked out with Tequila: they take you for serious then and nobody dares to harm or asks you, believe me. Disappear and come back clean as a newborn baby and you are saved.

So Porto was still a dream frame of mine and it still looked not to bad for European standards these days. I sneaked into a cafe-bar near the railway station to write my blog and charge my notebook that uses amounts of electricty like a radiation heater when a annoying feeling creeped into my guts: I had made a giant mistake. They liked me in there and licked my ass because they felt I was gay. That is by far the worst that can happen anywhere unless you are gay and you are able to prove it to the crowd around you. There, an older guy with a writers notebook is always gay cause somebody has told them in a gay chat on their smartphones or whatever. It always meant total disaster if you ever used that slimy public friendliness displayed to even get an answer to a simple question. They take this as an insult so bad that they uninhibitedly ruin you completely for „betraying them“. That is a heavy differnce to girls and women, who take little lies like that usually with a smile, unless you go to far. They know why, they do it all the time.

Gay lads take this as an invitation to WW3, so far I knew, that even their idiotic gay senseless assumptions, I was a gay bloody writer trying to squeeze their Portugesse anusses and poop-chootes with my notebok pretending to write or to charge it, in their near railway station coffee bar would lead to giving me the axe in Porto next day. Don't ask a simple question in a situation like that, that is completely set up by the AOI:, like: „where can I plug in my connetion to load my device, waiter?“ or: „where is the electricty for my computer?“ It all reads for a Portugese gay as: „I am an old horny French gay fartmouth tryin to score cheap Porto ass and dick by pretending to write like a Jean Genet style Houllebeq from Paris.“ They do not believe any other word from you, you are just a gay dick and ass machine - no matter if you have pictures of your daughter married to an athlet and you at her side on at the wedding party on display. It all does not count, because THEY KNOW, because THEY HAVE THOUGHT SO because it was in the Smart Phone, yes, in the Smart Phone edition by Dirck Diggler. That is all you have to know: you are in deep shit for just not being a normal couple guy with potato sized woman and you with an idiotic haircut from the hardware store hair cutter and Dockers pants or the German equivalent to it. „is this good for the STASI class reunion, mein Guter?“ 

 

There is no more room or space in this modern world of the AOI to leave you some loopholes. It has all been tightly closed.

Loopholes we have aways used and needed for endless times of artistic or freaky life styles around any time and culture in this world: that You are an entity that You created more or less by yourself and with everything around you and that is unique and has to be explained by itself. Explained by getting close to you by honest contacts that were part human culture, especially travel culture for ages and are the very core of human revelations. Even the old German wanderers, men travelling around in the Holy Roman Empire of German Nation for centuries from 1000 to 1800 relied on that specifically. And the wanderers before, who are part of the Viking Sagas as well and before that in the southern Germania. Meeting people around the Trail and getting in real touch. The magic of the road in itself is exactly that: negotiating the other entity and what it meant in absolute subjectivity and beeing part of that for a while, soaking in the best of it and moving on, alone or together. It decayed somehow by us, entropy moved in, the travellers themselves in overtravelling in late 80' and 90's, when too many joined the tribes of the electric gypsies around the globe and it became a cliche to be a traveller. Communication went into sterotypes, stories of drugs used „my girlfriend had mescaline in Mexico, what a bummer for her, didn't know herself anymore, had to prep her up for days.“ where exchanged in such a bored and worn out always the same way that could have been soldiers gretings in an army as well. „Albert Hoffman hat dann fuer Hoffman Laroche gearbeitet und LSD erfunden“ imagine the elaborated Swiss accent with that idiocy to boast off and show yourself as major freak. That is a truth we should not forget: WE also changed ourselves sometimes into frames of an more or less industrially or let's say handicraftly manufactured product - courtesy by the AOI but we did not believe it because we did not know that this AOI even existed. That company that makes up realities and hell for us. Some people could not be explored individualistically anymore when meeting them on the Trail lately anywhere. They were fabricated by some clandestine fashion institution as well as they are today all fabricated by the AOI and the New Time with New Humans nightmare from occult sources again - but now they know it. That is the American Way and that of the Israelites. Even the Muslims are now different: made in some Islamic State factory run by Turkey and Saudi Arabia: sterile, brute, deadly and precise.

They give you the feeling, that any emotion, any human reaction is known before in advance, on a map somewhere and explored already and part of some researched scheme and not necessary somehow. Soon the AOI will make it illegal, except the reactions they favour: coolness, being just as anybody else in your realm of knowldege unless the give you new input.

But I had to deal with that small and innocent situation in a mediocre coffeehouse in Porto that had housed sailors and trademen of devious goods even 20 years ago. Discretion was always garuanted in such places around the world. Nobody would pass on your existence unless professional snitches, a rare species then. Today it is the opposite, Galicia and Portugal are the worst examples of harassing and snitching on unusual brain patterns of humans. It is quite commen in Vigo for example that some mediocre Spanish woman follows you up from the bus station to a typical Galician restaurant where you dine and load your notebook. Do not hesitate to believe that she takes position just in front of you, takes a picture from you with her smartphone and sends it to the Guardia Civil. Be harassed then for being an author, verified by the BND in Germany for the rest of your stay in Vigo, surrounded by flashing police lights and stuid remarks at leat until they fry you the next day. That is a common scene at least in Portugal and Galicia in 2018 and leads to total artistic and genaral desaster, courtesy by the AOI. So I knew that the gay behind the bar were just waiting for any sign of „Old Life“ ins spite of trying to score some juvenile Porto dick. So what I did then was arranging a fake telephone call on the toilet with my old mobile phone that had such idiocy installed. „Yeah, that is horrible“ I shouted out loud at the bar , „Oh Jesus Christ, off course I am co ming to see you immmmmeeeeeediateely in Porto now, dear, what a destiny you are facing now, I am just leaving!“. „I have to leave!“ I shouted to the gaylord at the bar who was checking my price all the time before with his 19 year old colleague. „Personal desaster of my cousin from France here.“ „Ohhh, France, did not know thaaaat“. „I am sooo sorry we can not point this French stuff out together, soooo soooryy“. I banged some money on the table and grabbed my stuff and leftthem staring at me as preyin so many aspects, I do not want to describe now, but I know what comes out of some nothing situation like this today.

I walked thruogh the main part of town, ignored the stares on my backpack from the Porto assholes and heard French voices everywhere. The Grand Orient was here, without any doubt, they had just moved in as Adolf n Paris in 1940. There was no difference in the essence. Armies of French little bearded masons searching for young anusses and creamy portions of faeces oozing out of younger and older holes of vain were taking my breath. Not to forget the poor souls among them with clumsy to reasonable real wives, women I mean with breasts and vaginas. They are the lowest cast among the French masons of our Kali Yuga period. Since the Grand Orient and others of their ilk have secretely decided to disregard and disrespect the females from now on since they have destroyed our male liftestyle in Europe. They always forget that exactly they were responsible for the Scandinavian disaster wit the the females and their taking on of power positions without any knowledge or charactre patterns to do any good in this now. So we are all nannyed down and up, harassed by female control freaks etc. right enough, the French masosn always talked about this to me as the first topic: „ Yes yes I know what you think, I also have to walk around with my skank, while you are a free man, but we wil send them back to the kitchen and the bed soon, there is no other way.“ They forget as always, that they were the root of the problem by secretely again prepping and pimping them up as hell without a clue until we have an neverending Merkel or Grybauskaite or other monsters of vagina hell as Hillary Clinton. So those masons with accompanying wives were the harijans, the outcasts of the French invasion in Porto that is the master port of French masonic occupation in Europe today. They did not have teh typical beards as teh others too much also and showed a sulking face expression always. Just for the other masons to join in the chorus of anti vaginaism, but they could not get to close to the Porto asses, they still had to show some kind of human affection to their vagina wives - what a nightmare for them.

I crossed the river or sea arm to walk to the less touristic side of Porto and was trapped again in AOI nightmares of exquisite backstabbing and perfideous nature. They had taken down loads old buildings and the old genuine Porto architecture and preplaced it by....squares, black marble squares. That is the new AOI sickness the show also in other parts of the world to remind us also of the power of the Kaabah in Mekka. So I faced one huge black square after the other that made my ballsack shrivel. The shorthaired french and Portuges middle aged men with black thin pullovers did not make it any better. I decided to ot complain or anything but took out my dick and urinated against one of it and nobody seemd to even are about abut agreed silently. I again met the right tune here after not washing out of disrespect. But there were old small houses in sight, we loved so much in the eighties with the people of the neigborhood there. I walked in that direction and passed amrket hall that was exactly a copy of a Southern France marche with overpriced trivial country goods I hate so much I can't even piss at the market stalls.

Since it was nearly dark now I could see inside on of the "smalll old houses“ and had to face the fact that they had just made one house out of three, took out all the walls in between and build in a giant Poggenpohl kitchen for hundred grand or more. I could not believe it at all and stared straight through the window. There was a futuristic German overpriced kitchen with steel and glass and ginat table about 8 meters length in front of it. A modern gay couple was dining there, looking so French I thought I am in Paris. I just went away because I know they like it when we are annoyed about their rudeness and went back to the water.

There they had build a giant wooden sidewalk with myriads of bright halogen lights above it that made it look like an alien landing spot kilomters long for some slim legged monsters. Insects came passing along, one in bright halogene pink colors, the other one in halogene green colors, jogging in he bright lights, passing me and my Rucksack. That was too mc even for me. Only French complete assholes can build such a monster in such an environment as Porto's other side. I put my foot on the monster path and decided to walk a bit on it and see what happenes. Don't ever forget the obsession of the French with satellite technology. After just 5 minutes the first „par blue“ appeared, walking after me and tried to get nearer. I did not like that at all and evaded by just stepping of and was hiding in the nature around. He was looking for me but gave up after a while. I jumped back on just because I tried to walk along the waterline and find a place to rest for the night. Now they were coming from all sides to get nearer and meet me for soemthing I did not now but could imagine and I would not like. They were coming from the front and the back now, dressed in some sport outfit as they were dressed in bikers gear in Lisboa before, but much more aggressive here and sticking to the point. „So what you want?“ I asked them loud an clear. They did not answer at all but grinned. One of them just pushed me from the wooden sidewalk and moved on while the other two were jumping of and ran into the bushlands nearby. There was a huge old house, a ruin of an old Portugese land house. I decided to let them pas and followed them some minutes later. I wanted to check out the house, maybe there were some secrets to uncover.

There was an inner yard and all walls were full of disgusting to some better murials. Shit stench was everywhere. I used my flashlight to light up the scene and found something that reminded my of the satanist houses in Germany but much better styled here. Wild plants were growing everwhere between the old taken down walls, brilliant and bleak paintings everywhere or just test phases of them. I crawled aoround and found my new friends from the wooden health sidewalk. One was sitting with his short on on top of the other just in the mud and revel there and obviously tried to shit on him resp. In his mouth. Theys did not talk or tried to evade the situation. That was just a more hardcore version of the Lisboa scene in the woods and I left. Portugese police was passing by, blue lights were flashing, they new the place very well but let this pass without any complaints about it or closing it down. I had my knife in my hand since I still had no clue about these peoples attitudes at all. If they stick to shit and shitting into each other mouthes in posh sports gears as in Lisboa or if the slaughter you down. Nobody ever taljks about it. But this is the sexuallife of the New People“ in the New Time“ our politicians advovcate, without any doubt. These were all pillars of society, French style. I did not want to take the test if somebody, maybe the poice, would come to sacrifice me her and walked away. No solution to my sleeping problem in Porto yet.

I just remembered that they, the Police, fries down campers and vans everywhere in Spain and Portugal by courtesy of the US and the German government, since this lifestyle is against the AOI secret guidelines. So I went to the parking place for tarvellers campers nearby and looked around. They were mostly abandoned. People had lost hope that they could sleep anywhere in Portugal without being detected by police and radiated in the night. There was an old freak with his Wohnmobil who sat outside alone. „ What is this place here, a graveyard?“ I asked? „I just arrived, not many here, just look around, nobody cares a lot.“ He looked as hopeless as all og them in Portugal, „from the Old Times“. I just opened the door of a smaller camper at the edge of the place and entered. It was left about some weeks ago, I guessed an did not care anymore. I just unpacked my backpack, laid down my matrasse and my seeping bag and tried to sleep. It took them some hours to detect me there,the police, by sources still unkown to me. The radiation began at 5 in the morning so I left the parking ground and the fucking country of Portugal at six in a train to Galicia. There they had the most vicious dogs in Europe in addition.

Copyright:

Ronald C. Kaiser, December 28, 2019

Ghouls of Lisboa Part 2

This literary text was deleted after writing and posting it on the early morning of 30/6/2019 by the fascist regime of the German government under Angela Merkel and her Nazi Secret Service BND under the fascist criminal Bruno Kahl. Obviously they found themselves portrayed in here with their French occultist friend Macron. They are responsible for the fascist takeover of Europe, backed by Donald Trump and the CIA . Under the neverending regime of Angela Merkel artists are secretely persecuted in a way that closely resembles the Soviet Union and the German Democatic Republic, DDR, where she was trained as a secret service agent. "OIld friends" are often used for this i.e. "Dr. Stefan Römer", a major CIA agent in the art and media scene.

This blog is not listed in the Googe search engines because Google is part of a secret service operation to destroy artists for the US and German regimes. 

Ghouls of Lisboa Part 2

The camping ground outside Lisboa was under strong fire by the AOI from Germany, lead by a toad like woman who before served as a uniformed dish cleaner in some KGB dungeon during her course of studies in Moscow. That paid well: the camping ground in Lisboa, where she, her cock sucking and rug munching chief of secrete police and the AOI found ot that the last remnants of old freaks were maybe housing was a military radiation ground in 2018. „Hail Salazar!“ the Guardia Nacional officer shouted while standing of his pick up patrol wagon with an iroquese brush on his head. „Let's raid the fucking lefties in the project again!“

Opposite of the Lisboa Camping Ground is a terrain covered with a typical seventies housing project for working class people – most of them from the socialist, anarchists and communist party. Some of the houses were absolutely run down and the entrances blocked and sealed, windows covered with planks. AOI and Portugese police were going to ruin it all, since they still had well visited workers pubs there and cafes where I got a small cup of wine for some cents only. So they send in their A-Team look-alike police forces on pickups as in a Mad Max movie driving around the whole night with sirens and flickering blue lights searching for people like me and switching on the gigantic telephone masts that were sometime as low as people heads in Portugal.

I was hiding my backpack and sleeping bag under a huge plastic sheet in the middle of the mediterrenean forest around the Camping Ground that was stretching quite far, I marked some trees too find it later and went back to the restaurants of the Camping Ground where the were able to serve some good Portugese food. The waitress gave me a horny eye before and all the time and I was wondering what was happening when I got back there, since I expect nothing good these days when younger women do this with older men. Except when quick money comes out of it the easy way an all parties split happily ever after the good old fashioned seeing thru.

She was sitting there behind the cashier desk and gave me a look as if I had just pissed on her Bacalhau with legumes. In those cases I immediately close up and treat them as pieces of furnuture and that's what they are: little commodes in AOI offices around the world and wardrobes in police offices. I ate that fish, plugged in my notebook to the power line and went to the toilet. When I heard the door slamming again while pissing in that smelly porcellain. „What you do ere, buying women an give them cocaine, par blue?“ I looked around and saw a hooked nosed face of a elderly French bigot who was watching me with disgust the day before when I was writing o the terrace. „No, I wait for gay rug munchers from Paris who could not score enough young boys in Tanger to hook them up on Portugese dogs with tight sphincters, By the way you looked good last week when they made alive broadcast from Paris Rue Cadet when you were feating on dogshit as a market introduction of your new sacrament.“ He stared at me with such a disgust, same as Mitterand, when Kohl served him Pfälzer Saumagen as main dish to really piss him off in Bonn in the eighties. „The woooman complained about you that you look at her before with the AOI, maybe you stop writing ere better forever.“ He paid her for later testifying anthing he wanted for the AOI that was the game, that was obvious and so boring that I resisted any answer and grabed his cell phone in a kind of Blitzkrieg against the arrogant Grand Orient shitface and threw it in my piss that was gathering in the sink of my pissoir since it was clocked. It was covered in the liquids completely and looked peaceful down there when it moved around very slowly in my and other mens piss, dangling around, that had gathered there. „Anything else from the Grand Masters?“ I asked and went out, grabbed my things and left while she tried to look away, playing the shy one since I had never talked to her. It was raining cats and dogs when I went out of that fucking place. The cuisine was still good there. Portugese housewife kitschen.

Back in the woods I felt like in a rain forest in Malaysia, that was the closest resemblance that crossed my mind. I had just felt a little piece of bad old Portugese black magic with a typical Mulatto woman, who would have sworn that I had eaten her babies for 50 Euros bribe from a French Mugface. The forest had changed its apperance and vibe totally. Moistness and fog was omnipresent and swapping slowly inside me, despite of the ridicoulos umbrella I opened. My torch was showing a scenery I had never seen before, huge brances were coming down on me, dripping wet, nothing seend the same as in the morning. I searched for my backpack and stuff and got totally lost. My marks on trees were lost, all the small paths I remembered lead into more strange things I had never seen before and the rain intesified in the dark and was running down my neck. I did not give up and ran into another direction, after starting from the beginning again ang ended at exactly the same worng group of trees as before: no plastic with my backpack and sleeping back hiding under it. So I went back again and heard some voices suddenly „Are you looking for your things my dear?“ loud and clear. „yes I am fucking lost in that fucking rain forest“. „We can lead you to your belongings, just follow us“. „So who are you by the way“. „we are the fairies here and know evertyhing and alos you because you was here before“. Ok I thought at least some positive magic in that fucking country with Grand Orient noses everywhere and and snitching hookers on camping grounds, evil dolls in empty houses and such. The voices were loud and clear, no whispering in it. „Go left now, ok, now turn right an go on“ I did and asked: „What do you want for this, is it free of charge, since you are unknown spirits to me, I did not give you anything before.“ „You must not talk to any other woman ever after this when you got your things“. What would you have done in this situation? I agreed and they led me on my way back to my belongings bin the npouring fucking Portugese rain of cats and dogs and Portugese fairies. The Spanish have none of this as far I know, but I wondered if the Portugese ones keep on being as good as they seemed. At least theye were absoluteley loud and clear and kept my on my way for quite a while now. I had to crawl under hanging branches, climb over a nature stone wall in the forest and after another „now left“ I stood in front of my bags. „Thank you, that was great“ I said, now you may leave. „Remember: we are the only ones, don't talk to other women.“ I did not answer an they left me with my bags.

I found a place to sleep nearby under a huge tree and covered myself with my plastic foil from the pouring Portugese rainforest rain and that went well. Those fairies left a remarkable vibe behind I did not know before, quite energetic. I slept well and woke up the next morning, sat up and looked into the rising sun in perfect weather. I looked around myself and thought, wow, they still have some good nature here when a bleak whiff hit my left nostril that wasn't so good. SHIT, that it was. I stood up, dressed and walked around. About less that five meters way from me i ran into a real shit place. Fresh human shit turds with toilet papers thrown away around it.- I couldn't believe it. Where was I? I was about more than hunderds of meters away from a main path in a forest and cked it out: they had really scatted around me in that rainy night in about five meters distance, what the fuck. I had never experienced such a contempt and disgust for that animals who did this. So forest was spoiled and desacrifized and downtrodden now. That was a kind of ritual place of scatters or whatever and the saddest thing in that is the toilet paper with shitstains on it, not the turds in different colors intself. It is the ultimate obscenity for me: a shitting place with shit stained toilet papers in different colors. Difficult to beat that in obscenity for me.

I packed my things together, my knife ready to use if the shitters party by for an ass rape or whatever. It was quite obvious that they fucking and fondling each others asses to realy get into the caviar to get it out and created a little ritual around me. Men off course, these animals were male who did this. I checked the area and was wondering about the many small paths everywhere without any reason. Not were I had slept but further outside. I did some serious boyscouting then to get the clue of that mess and crawled inside the dense parts of the forest and found a wall of nature stones in some terrace someone build a hundred or twohundred years ago. I checked out the wall and took out a stone that did not seem to fit. My torch found a kind of jewlers box inside. I took it out and opened it: there were some childrens toys in it like little cuddle figures and many small hand written leaflets and papers most of them in French with strange messages and time and date notices. I was so disgusted, without an official reason that I did not know what to do. I took out the childrens toys and buried them and put the box back, put in the stone and was about leaving that horrible space when I heard footsteps. I hid in the woods nearby and a young man with a mountain bike on his shoulders crashed thru the bushes and branches, throwing his bike on the ground shouting „merde, merde!!“ and grabbed at the stone immediately. He took out the box and opened it. „Qu'est-ce-que c'est“ he shrieked and looked around him on the floor. He read the papers on top and threw them on the grond, trampling on them. Then he placed the open box on the ground, took down his pants and shitted in the box. He closed it with his turd inside an sealed it with the stone in the wall and went away.

I felt like in a theatre or candid camera, but it wasn't. There was something so bleak and perfectly constructed in that reality I had just witnessed that I felt the world around me slipping away. I grabbed my things, curious that none of the mysterious cophrophiles watched me and went back to the Lisboa Camping ground. Now I realized how many small paths were build into the forest and I realized some strange folks on mountain bikes and BMX bikes everywhere. In the end it was just trees between a network of paths for only end: they lead to always the same: meeting someone here and that should not be avoided. Not avoided at all,there was a secret message behind it – that this is the only reality they, the AOI accepts. Even for the price they shit you on your head while you are sleeping in something YOU regard as nature while THEY are changing it to a matrix.

I arrived at the camping and was welcomed by the full set of AOI personell choreographing the stage for me. The long haired agent form Hannover was there staring at me with a a look of sheer disgust in evil eyes, while the Grand Orient Master from France was dining with his wife and doing the scene for him. She asked him in French if I was the pimp from Germany trying to buy out the Mulatto women in the restaurant cum camping shop. That bored me to such an extent that I steped in the kitchen like a raiding police goon and sweettalked to the Mulatto waitress: „How much did that French peodophile pay you ta talk shit about me? By the way, it was you who stared at me, as if you would like to fitten the pipe already here in your kitchen. I did not talk to you at all, remember, always regarded you as a cashier in all aspects and waited for the price.“ „ Just a job in Paris, I hate Portugese men“. „The only good people I meet here are Fairies and people in the concentration camp, just across the road, you asshole“ I said and went away. I passed the table of the French couple who left a mobile phone for me there and were already gone. I grabed the cheap cell phone, full of hatred for the frog eating motherfucker. I looked around outside and the Hannover AOI crew was staring at me – without saying a word as usual, alllong haired, full freak show from AOI Hannover. I could not see the French couple ad wöked to the bus station, whe he was sitting with his so caled wife. The phone was ringing. I took the call and a French voice told me „ You can not harass and attack and harass Monsieur Lafitte all the time, this is Interpol Lyon“. „ Right, you are AOI France, the Grand Orient.  Did you bury the children in the forest before or after shitting on them, you French fucking Grand Orient piece of shit from Paris, that phone smells like kikeshit, you hear me?“ Klick it made and just had time enough to throw the fucking piece of shit in the direction of Monsieur Lafitte who was just climbing into the bus to the centre. Baang, it burst into pieces at the bus door just closing behind my French friends from Paris.

I had enough with cheap symbolism from the Seine. I swore to myself to never enter that Camping Ground again but to stay with the downtrodden poor working class in the Gettho or in the forest. The first one was unavailable after a short time, since the police made it perfectly clear that I was the most unwanted person in Portugal and zthey did not want a witness by exterminating them all for having social values of all so I moved to another part of the forest. I was again attracted by the magic of it and found a small and steep hill in it to rest there, since nobody could see me there. The fairies were back in the evening around me, talking loud about the nice new ground „I owned“ there but with a different attitude.But they were watching me when I moved out on he street to that aprt of forest. Slimy freaky Portugese guys were standing in the way, backpacks of lost people were on he side of the road, contact lense containers were down in the dirt and dust. The shit was hitting the fan the Portugese way, they were encirceling me.

In the night I stayed on top of the hill and it felt perfectly safe. A hilltop is a gift from heaven, even without a rifle or another gun, only siege can get you out of there. So climbed into my sleeping bag, felt cosy and good, with my moneybelt around me, inside my trousers even. In the morning I woke up and climbed out of the sleeping bag. My moneybelt felt very slim. I opened it and all the cash, the cards and the USB sticks were gone. All of my valuables were placed around the edges of the hilltop, 5 to 10 metres away from me on the ground: money, cards and USB sticks. I did not even questioned myself why this has happened, I took this is as normal reality like ringing a door bell. I just collected my items, counted the money, it was all there and stuffed it back into my moneybelt. Any natural explanation was absolutely excluded. At least I had just pissed of the Fairies I said to myself, I will keep that hilltop and look for myself, nobody has seen me here, I will stay and fuck them all. I had just made myself ready after packing my gear together when they attacked. Three French byciclists with expensive uniform like biking outfit where moving up the hill, the first one had a new jewellers box in his hand. They were waiting for me. 

I escaped to Porto where I found the system of the French AOI perfected. French AOI personell is buying the whole town piece by piece turning it into a Grand Orient homosexual play ground and place of occult worshipping with masnonic rebuilding of the town off Porto that does not deserve to be portrayed at all. From there I fled immediately to Spain, where the German Nazis were waiting for me personally. They appeared personally with their Spanisch friends form the Guardia Civil.

Copyright 2019 by Ronald C. Kaiser