STALKED 45 MILES TO NJ SHORE BY HOT-ROD WISEGUY - WHAT'S NEXT?
• Another true day-in-the-life story of the veteran journo who has exposed America's network of cellular microwave radio frequency "torture towers" -- and apparently continues to pay the price...
GET POLITICAL w/ VIC LIVINGSTON
For more than six years, this extra-legally targeted, stalked and electromagnetically tortured veteran journalist has constantly checked the rear-view mirror while driving on the road, on the alert for hate-consumed, apparently cop-protected "gang stalker" drivers who regularly tailgate and menace by motor vehicle wherever I travel.
So it was Sunday afternoon during what I had hoped would be a relatively peaceful three-hour getaway to the Jersey shore town of Belmar, where I like to walk the sands, suck in the sea breeze, and maybe treat myself to one of those delicious cheese danishes at Freedman's bakery.
But as it's been many times before, this day trip brought little peace, only disturbing and absurd, Kafkaesque reminders that a security- and law enforcement cult, supported by an array of federally-funded homeland security and defense department programs, has turned America into a police state -- and that Americans no longer can expect freedom or respect when they just want to head "downashore" to get away for a while.
I first noticed the tailgating Corvette just east of Trenton, on I-195, the beeline to central Jersey shore towns. The driver bore down on my donkey, his aggressive driving a calling card that conveyed the message that I will be tormented wherever I go and whatever I do.
Instinctively, I eased up on the accelerator -- to let my pursuer pass, and to allow me to harvest his license plate number and any other distinctive identifying markers. It was a classic Sting-Ray, white, with Jersey plates bearing distinctive letters (starting with "QQ") and the designation, "historic."
As the stalker passed me by, I made a mental note, thinking I'd probably see him again down the road.
My instincts proved correct. But more on that later; first, I had to indulge in a pastry and a cup of coffee at Freedman's bakery. But not without some careful observation before I entered -- because I knew I was being stalked.
As I drove toward the bakery, I saw a dark car parked down the block from my destination. The rear window was plastered with police-related insignia -- P.B.A., F.O.P., New Jersey State Police. Positioned next to the police insignia was a sticker depicting a skull wearing a Nazi-style helmet.
This visage was upsetting to this relentlessly stalked and electromagnetically tortured aging Jew.
I found a parking spot across the street from the bakery. I crossed the street, taking note of the cars parked outside. One was a black SUV with the distinctive New Jersey State Police logo on the rear window. I believe it was a sticker to commemorate fallen officers.
As I entered, I noticed the typical police decals that customers see when they visit local businesses. Nothing unusual about that.
Behind the counter was a man, presumably the owner (a Freedman, perhaps?), and a young woman. I was about to order "the usual" -- one of the bakery's outstanding cheese danish, the best I've ever tasted anywhere.
But a little voice in the back of my mind commanded: "Don't order the danish."
I had seen a sign in the window stating that "Kneip rolls" were "back." So I asked the young woman standing next to the man, "What's a 'Kneip roll?'"
The man answered. "It's the best sourdough roll you ever tasted!"
"Well, I guess I just have to have one of those," I said, looking directly at the woman.
She began to reach for one of many Kneip rolls on the shelf, when the man, who had gone behind the counter, emerged with a roll in his hand and said:
"Here -- take this one. Fresh from the oven."
He held out his leavened offering with a solicitous smile.
Well, one thing this old Jew knows is that virtually all bakeries do their baking overnight or early into the morning, so that the stock is ready for shipment to restaurants and commercial accounts. I also have watched my share of TV detective shows. And I knew from the cars outside that it was likely, if not certain, that this merchant was alerted to a pending visit from a "targeted individual."
In the event that some operative had used his persuasive powers to get the proprietor to add a little something special to my order -- something that has happened to me before when eating out -- I said:
"No. I'd prefer to have one of those," pointing to the rolls already on the shelf.
The man said nothing, and retreated to the back.
I purchased my roll, with a cup of coffee, consumed it on the premises to see who would show up next (no one did). I left for the beach, where I parked in my usual spot in front of the boardwalk, across the street from a 7-11.
I correctly surmised that as I began my stroll on the boards (they're plastic in Belmar, missing that that salt- and-tar-pitched boardwalk smell), I would be silently, invisibly attacked by the U.S. government's microwave radio frequency "directed energy" weapon system, as I have been assaulted every time I've visited Belmar in the past few years.
I was alerted to the constant streaming attack by radio frequency in two ways: the little RF detector I carry with me always began to beep off the hook as soon as I hit the boardwalk; and instantly I felt that oppressive "head in a vise" pain, a discomfiting malaise and a feeling of sudden, overwhelming weakness.
In the past, I've suffered in silence, enduring a cruel form of torture, impairment and extra-legal persecution devised by multi-agency ideologues and tyrants who comprise the Homeland Security- administered network of 72 regional "fusion centers." The security, military and intelligence officials who devised this American Gestapo cleverly use defense contractors, local law enforcement and citizen vigilante goon squads to do the dirty work on the ground, as they publicly vow to aggressively wage their endless wars on terrorism, street crime -- and individual liberty.
But in recent months, I have come to the realization that at least some public officials in the fusion center ambit may not be fully aware that novel technologies described as "surveillance" actually are instruments of silent assault, torture, impairment, subjugation, and at "high amplitude," a slow- or fast-kill death -- what I believe to be a calculated, hate- and ideology-driven American genocide. The primary targets: persons condemned by faceless bureaucrats as "dissidents" or undesirables, often targeted for their politics, their ethnic backgrounds, their social activism -- or to even personal scores.
So when I felt the first waves of electromagnetic assault, I reached for my cellphone, which I had disabled because it can be used by this microwave weapon system to harvest GPS targeting coordinates. Obviously, another mode of targeting was being applied in Belmar; it could have been an infrared laser beam directed at me by undercover agents or citizen vigilantes; an RFID strip, or chip, secreted on (or perhaps in) my person; or, possibly, direct satellite targeting by powerful military satellites.
I put the battery back into my cellphone and called the Verizon speed DSL line, knowing that all of my telecommunications are being intercepted, monitored, and sometimes maliciously tampered with or even altered by "information systems" defense contractor operatives who do the grunt work for U.S. intelligence agencies and commands.
I announced to no one in particular that I was in Belmar, N.J., again under attack by the government's microwave radio frequency weapon system, and that those attacking me were committing a war crime.
An act of lunacy by a delusional individual who deserves to be surveilled and tortured 24/7? Or the only way this unjustly persecuted 60-year-old journalist could reach some good people on the inside who could use their suasion to stop the attack?
Well, in my book, results speak for themselves. The attack soon ebbed, and I was able to actually enjoy a stroll on the boardwalk, and then onto the beach, where only a random stranger or two (some of them, no doubt, officially-commissioned stalkers) crossed my path.
I took some deep breaths and couldn't help but cry aloud: "Freedom!"
After nearly an hour, I cut back across the deserted beach, heading back toward the boardwalk. As I approached a shuttered beachside restaurant, I saw a young Hispanic man standing on the restaurant's deck, looking intently toward me, talking on a cellphone while smoking a cigarette.
"Yeah," he answered.
"Could you help me to get a message to team leader?" I said.
The young man glared.
"Tell him these six words: 'Civil Rights Division, Department of Justice.'"
After a moment, the man responded. "Who is this team leader?"
"Well, if you figure it out, just pass it on. You might be helping him."
I can offer no proof, but again, I believe my instincts were correct, that this guy was on an assigned mission of intimidation. If so, I had delivered my message. In the unlikely event that this guy just happened to be looming over me as I emerged from the beach, then chalk it up to a case of mistaken identity.
I headed into the 7-11 store, headed for the lottery counter, and jotted down the 'vette owner's plate number on a discarded ticket stub. Another stern-looking fellow stood just inside the door, his arms folded as he stared blankly forward out the store window, in front of a newspaper rack, as if he was a sentry on duty.
When I left the store, guess what I saw across the side street? It was the white Corvette that had been tailgating me on the interstate. The same "historic" Jersey license plate. It was now nearly three hours since I noticed the vehicle in my rear-view.
The driver was standing at the car's side
"Hey -- didn't I see you following me in from Trenton?" I called out as I crossed the street.
The driver just smiled.
"Nice ride," I remarked as I approached the car.
"Well, you know, you only go around once," he replied, as if on cue.
After some innocuous banter, I asked him the question:
"Hey, could you help me? I'm trying to get a message to team leader. These six words: "Civil Rights Division, Department of Justice."
It was deja vu all over again. After giving me a look, the driver said, "Team leader -- which team is that? There are lots of teams."
"YOUR team," I offered.
"I don't have a team. But my wife works for the Department of Justice."
"The federal Department of Justice?" I asked.
"The New Jersey Department of Justice," he replied.
"Well, then, ask her to pass the message on to her team leader," I said.
At that point, the man appeared to be having difficulty maintaining a friendly air. He reached into a pouch for another one of the little "Cheroot" style cigars he was smoking, lit up and took a few puffs before he said:
I didn't respond.
"You know what we say in Italian -- "
He then uttered what I took to be an old Italian curse, but I couldn't be sure.
Then he said, in English and with a distinct smirk, "Have a happy life."
Before I turned to walk away, I said this:
"Look, you've got some information now. How you use it is up to you."
After a little while, I walked back into the 7-11 to buy some peanuts. I stood outside the store eating the snack, and saw the 'vette owner approaching the store with a coffee mug. As he was entering, I said this to him:
"Are you going to tell me why you followed me in from Trenton before I file my report?"
To my stalker's credit, he didn't lie, or deny. He just nodded his head from side to side, signaling, "No."
I walked down the street, crossed back over to the boardwalk, and took up a perch on a bench, just to observe my long-distance stalker. He stood by his car for a while, watching me. A shore town stand-off.
Then, he was joined at his side by a woman. I saw them gesturing, looking at me. I just sat there. Five minutes. Ten minutes. Then, he and the woman got into the car, and they took off down the side street, avoiding having to pass by my post.
I shuddered. If this guy and his woman would spend this entire beautiful Sunday afternoon stalking their prey, just what else did they and their likely co-conspirators have in mind for me, and my family?
With that question in mind, and out of concern for my personal safety, and that of my family, I hereby publish this stalker's "historic" New Jersey license number: QQ58144.
So I headed back west on I-195, thinking that once again, I've got another story to tell. But the narrative was not over.
Passing me on my left was the black SUV that had been parked in front of Freedman's bakery, the one with the New Jersey State Police commemorative logo on the rear window. I also confirmed the identity of the vehicle by its plate number, which I will not publish, since it could be "just a coincidence" that this vehicle appeared to be trailing me as I left Belmar for the interstate. (And we all know what TV's N.C.I.S. Agent LeRoy Jethro Gibbs says about coincidences....)
Farther up the road, when the SUV was back in the right lane, I gunned my engine and passed on the left, matching the SUV's speed to take a good long look at the driver, who was accompanied by a woman in the front passenger seat. His face was unfamiliar to me. As I glared, he looked back, wide-eyed, and seemed to shrug his shoulders.
The SUV driver soon veered off the interstate and onto the next exit.
I headed on back east, to my Bucks County, PA home, left to wonder just what role (roll?), if any, that SUV driver had played in the cop-protected gang-stalking kabuki theater I had experienced all day long in Belmar By-the-Sea.
FOR MORE OF VIC LIVINGSTON'S FIRST-HAND REPORTING ON GESTAPO USA AND ELECTROMAGNETIC TORTURE AND GENOCIDE IN AMERICA:
NowPublic.com/scrivener and Facebook -- Vic Livingston ("Notes")