eBay: Francis E. Dec, Esq. on videotape. The only known footage of the Frankenstein Controlled Gangster himself!
Forrest Jackson
Available to the highest bidder who
will pay for Priority U. S. Mail shipment:
One VHS videotape of my
visit to Mr. Dec's house and deathbed. For more info see:
http://www.teleport.com/~dkossy/decvisit.html
FJ
Unclaimed Mysteries
Hash: SHA1
You earphone radio puppet slave!!! Solely Mr. Dec was the one to WARN
us of the incredible Frankenstein Computer (a crudely
reverse-engineered MWOWM). To refer to him in this way is to reveal
your own diabolical gangster self as part of the unbelievable
conspiracy. Get thee back to remedial kook skool.
- --
It Came from Unclaimed Mysteries
C. L. Smith, Maximum Director
http://www.unclaimedmysteries.net/
"As God is my witness, I thought turkeys could fly."
-- Arthur Carlson, famous broadcasting executive
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Monsterwax
Your ATF tape is in route!
-kk
Monsterwax
see a God like Deck on hard times, let alone WANT to see it, but the write up
was certainly worth the read. Here goes:
Available to the highest bidder who will pay for Priority U. S. Mail
shipment: One VHS videotape of the following visit to Mr. Dec's
deathbed. The below text is from Donna Kossy's kooks webpage
www.teleport.com/~dkossy/decvisit.html Just before the great East Coast
blizzard of late 1995, Francis E. Dec Esq. was lapsing into a slow death
without any hope that his secrets concerning the Worldwide Containment
Policy would be revealed. He had barely spoken during the entire three
years of his geriatric stay at the St. Albans VA Hospital in Queens, New
York. Usually, he had only one visitor, his despised and abusive brother
Joseph, who would come to his bedside several times a week in a devotion
both sympathetic and hateful. No doubt Francis felt that his life had b
een destroyed and wasted by a society that could not understand the
peril it faced. He had expended his sanity hiding in the cellar of his
house in Hempstead typing mad letters of warning about Frankenstein
Controls, Eyesight Television, the Earphone Radio, and the Synthetic
Nerve Radio Directional Antennae Loop, but no one had listened during
all those years. No one seemed to care that he was now a twisted,
atrophied puppet of a man, or so he thought. Then one day, exactly
thirty years after witnessing a CIA "Gangster" pumping deadly poison
nerve gas smoke into the cabin of his escape flight to Poland, Mr. Dec
woke up from an afternoon nap to find three Men In Black suits at his
bedside with a few questions about the Computer God he had postulated.
Was this trio a vindication of his insane efforts or a further
persecution? I was there to pay homage and to frighten the man who has
bewitched my brain-bank brain, but I will never know how he perceived
our manifestation because, though he lies there consciously, Francis Dec
still refuses to speak. I first heard of Francis E. Dec via Doc
Britton's recorded rants which were played at a semi-religious,
ritualistic Winter Solstice party hosted by the Hot Tub Mystery Religion
before Christmas, 1993. I was not merely intrigued; I was imprinted. Now
I, too, am a parroting puppet of the Computer God. But I love it. I
became obsessed and the rants looped endlessly in my mind. His rants
reveal him to be a naughty racist and a paragon of misanthropy, but this
did not deter me: I decided that I must meet the man. Snooping into a
national directory of phone numbers yielded nothing. I called every
listed Dec in New York City and Long Island, but no one claimed to know
anything about Francis or Joseph. I called the local newspapers and the
Army, but no luck. Finally, it dawned on me to write a letter to 29
Maple Ave. and hope for the best. Since I had read reports of Dec's
consistent unavailability to visitors, I was resigned to the probability
that he was either dead or incapacitated. A letter posted from Brooklyn
from his brother Joseph confirmed that Dec was incapacitated. I wrote
back to Joseph, but he would have nothing further to do with me. In his
letter, Joseph mentioned that Francis was "inactive" in a VA Hospital.
From this clue, I deduced that the hospital must be either near
Hempstead or Brooklyn, so I called VA Hospitals proximal to both places.
After some careful questioning, I got through to Dec's ward (F3) at the
St. Albans VA Hospital. The nurses refused to answer my many questions
about Dec's health, military status, and mental abilities, but from
their minimal responses I decided that it was worth the trip to New
York. After securing flights and a modicum of surveillance equipment,
David Hanson, Ean Schuessler, and I converged in Manhattan to carry out
our gangster plan -- to meet Francis Dec. The nurses assured me that we
were perfectly welcome to visit any time between the hours of 9:00 AM
and 9:00 PM. Initially, David wanted to stay the entire twelve hours and
insisted that I bring my pet tarantula to throw on the poor bed-ridden
fellow at 8:59 PM. I reminded David that, although we might look
menacing to Dec in our black suits, we were there to venerate and
terrify him, not to harm him. Once in New York, we played up the pseu
do-secret agent roles. We had authentic Secret Service earphone radios;
devices that fit in the outer ear while broadcasting and receiving sound
from distances up to 100 meters. Also, we had a small 8mm videocamera
for the purpose of independently recording the images of Dec and his
mythos apart from our own subjective Eyesight Television playback
brain-bank brains. After all, it's a long way to the other side of the
moon. We went to see Dec at the hospital on Friday December 15th. As
mentioned above, exactly thirty years before, according to his own
testimony, he was starving himself after being beaten bloodily by
"Polish" police with no identification at a small snowbound St. Lawrence
River airport. So he was not surprised when three Men In Black appeared
at his bedside. Our manifestation did cause a stir among the nurses,
however, and they busted us after only four minutes of filming. Many
observers of our video of Dec lying moribund in bed think that our
visitation was cruel, but I insist it was not. We traveled hundreds of
miles and spent thousands of dollars for five minutes of his silently
paralytic time and we view the encounter as a success. In the curving
hall of Ward F3 my brain achieved a balance between the ecstasy of the
numinous and the menace of the demonically paranoid when I saw the
plaque on the door that stated "Dec, Francis". Unfortunately, we did not
otherwise document this token of his presence nor did we steal his empty
check-up sheet that his doctor probably hadn't scribbled on in months.
All that mattered was that we were finally in the presence of the man
who dared to stand up against the Worldwide Mad Deadly Communist
Gangster Computer God. The man certainly looked dead as we approached.
He may have had the head of a Polack, but he had the snake legs of
Abraxas.* By saying that he had snake legs I mean that they were bound
in coils beneath the bedsheets in what one nurse termed "contractures,"
a medical condition that manifests after a stroke. Apparently, Dec
suffers continual muscle spasms that must cause him considerable pain.
He may have been sedated or otherwise medicated. His ears were
abnormally long and flabby, his chin displayed triangular red nicks from
a recent shave, and there was a DEADLY TOUCH TABIN NEEDLE IN HIS ARM!
Some would call it an "IV" but we knew better. His arm was bound in an
infinite onion of gauze so that he would not pull out this needle. He
waved this cottony mass at us, perhaps in communication. Sadly, there
was a television pointed directly at his face. He shared the room with
three or four other patients, none of whom could have suspected that a
bitter, latter-day god was dying before them. It was quite difficult to
ask questions of this near-corpse. We asked him about his brother, his
house, Frankenstein Controls and the Synthetic Nerve Radio Directional
Antennae Loop, but he had nothing to say about any of these crucial
matters. I do think that he understood us, however, because at one point
David asked him to nod his head if he could hear us. Instead of
complying with this simple request of head-nodding, he shifted his eyes.
I do not offer this ocular tracking as unassailable proof of his
coherence, but I am convinced that he was aware of us and our questions.
The strangest phenomenon of our visit was not recorded. I will never
forget how Dec's jaw made a continual muffled click as he chomped on his
mandible. Also, I believe that he tried to communicate something by
waving about his gauze-wrapped arm. Though we were nearly arrested by
the Hospital's security, we were not discouraged. The next day we rented
a black Lincoln sedan (with driver) and drove out to Hempstead to see
the "low deadly gangster nigger-town old house" (29 Maple Ave.). The
most remarkable thing about it was the crazily painted mailbox, that was
in actuality a small metal trashcan. I was tempted to steal the lid, but
I refrained out of respect for future visitors. Also of note: many milk
cartons around the horizontal venetian blinds; the very old black car in
the garage; the ghost-of-Dec plaid shirt in the window; and the evidence
of scavenged wood above the rear outer cellar door. We tried to break
in, but there were simply too many people gawking at us while we pressed
the videocamera against the windowpanes in vain hopes of getting a
decent shot of the house's interior. We must have looked odd emerging
from and returning to our sinister black car in our black suits. These
somber habiliments lent us an attitude of bravery and boldness, so we
questioned as many neighbors as we could find. Though we were polite to
everyone, only one person was accommodating. When asked why we were
interested in the old man, I told one neighbor that Dec's writings were
political in nature and might have some bearing on the Kennedy
assassination case. We had flown from Dallas to find out what we could.
And that's what we did. We discovered that Dec is lost to us and the
future sure seems hopeless. Days later I spoke to one of the more candid
nurses and she told me that Joseph visits Francis several times a week,
though Francis rarely speaks a word. Francis' only confirmed words in
three years came when the nurse told him to sit up. He looked her in the
eye scornfully and asked, "Do I have to?" Yes, Francis, you must do
whatever they tell you in the sealed robot arm operating cabinet. And
that is where he remains, in the VA Hospital taking commands from the
black nurses he hates so silently, lingering for the inevitability of
gradualness. In closing, I want to make a plea for further research into
Dec's rants and life. Donna Kossy, R. Crumb, and the subGeniuses have
done the world a great service by publicizing the man. Even as I write
this account, there are lawyers in New York researching his legal
troubles of the late 1950s. A CD release of Doc's recorded rants may
appear on the market soon and the Computer God looms ever larger in the
new fake starry skies. Please contact me with any information you might
have about Francis Dec. I am offering a large sum reward for original
Dec letters, flyers, etc. I realize that I have been sucked into Dec's
realm of insanity, but how can one deny falling for such a beautifully
self-consistent paranoid and viral message? Also, I urge everyone with
the inclination to visit Francis, if only to scare him and the nurses.
This terrorization might be considered cruel gangsterization, but does
Dec with his unparalleled racism and hatred of everyone (shy of Will
Rogers) deserve gentlemanly treatment? You be the judge. Call the St.
Albans VA Hospital. They will not tell you much, other than photos are a
no-no, but there is a chance that you will run into Joseph there. If you
decide to visit, please do me a favor and wear a black suit! * Abraxas
was the chicken-headed, snake-footed god the second century Christian
mystery sect of Basilidians. Dec certainly possesses the power of such a
Demiurge, in that he has created an entire world full of material evil.
Dig? Dec, the Gnostic God of these End Times! I worship you! Forrest
Jackson (f...@hotweird.com) © 1996, Forrest Jackson
Monsterwax
Loved your write up on Francis, but surely you don't really mean to be MEAN to
the man who provide us with so much insight into the conspiracy? BOW before thy
God! Be he racist or no, he OBVIOUSLY knows more that we mortals. I only
mention this because I'm concerned what he might do to your soul if you DARE
show disrespect before his mighty launch into the heavens where he will look
down at as, with a million star like eyes, watching our everymove and recording
our every deed. Yes! I know what he's up too! (I can still hear him slightly,
whispering.) He'll do on to you as "they" did on to him- Frankenstein computer
gods, Jew doctor bankers, nigger clone thugs and all!
Rev. Nickie
Hey, Forrest, been hanging out in any more tire stores lately?
--
*you have been blessed by a communication from*
-----Rev. Nickie the Hated,
Inquisitor General and Minister of Propaganda -
SubGenius Foundation, Inc.
"My way is superior to ALL OTHERS"