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GUEST,Hector Ballsworthy, the Independent Press BS: Tremors in Twillingsgate? (15) BS: Tremors in Twillingsgate? 22 Feb 06

Those familiar with my by now famous writings in the *** Independent Press ***, the one publication in all of England which dares to print the Truth, the whole Truth, and nothing but the Truth, will no doubt recall these prophetic lines which appeared under my column in the Dec/04 issue of the Independent Press:

"It is already beyond dispute that the Wellington-Jones's are deeply implicated in the alien bloodlines that are interwoven throughout the British peerage and the aristocratic bloodlines of Europe and beyond. To put it frankly, the man's not human! Or he is only marginally human, to be more exact about it. My groundbreaking journalism has already placed Winston Wellington-Jones in Satanic blood rituals of human sacrifice that take place on symbolic dates such as Mayday, Hallowe'en, and so on. These rites go back to a (wordlwide)power structure that predates ancient Babylon.

It is my impression that Miss Penelope Rutledge has been groomed from childhood, unbeknownst to her, to become the sacrifical bride of this monster, Wellington-Jones, with but one purpose: to produce heirs and introduce new genetic material of the original and pure human race into the camouflaged alien bloodline of Wellington-Jones! Miss Rutledge is, of course, unaware that she is being used in this fashion."

Well, the cracks are beginning to appear in the edifice of well-concealed depravity that is Rutledge House! Yes, this rambling and ancient estate ensconced in the seemingly quaint setting of Twillingsgate in the Cotswolds is serving as the site of a growing horror that would reduce its placid neighbours to babbling hysteria, were the entire Truth known!!!!

What is the real nature of Winston Wellington-Jones? For a glimpse into the psyche of this inhuman beast cloaked in a merely skin deep biological disuise which is sustained only at the cost of the extracted vital energies of God knows how many innocent victims, read this excerpt from a post earlier today on this very forum by his notorious niece, the naive and misguided Veronica Rutledge:

"Does anyone remember the parrot? Uncle Winston had made it the mascot over at the Vicar's Inn, where it entertained the gents in the pub nightly by swearing in the most dreadful and vituperous manner. As time went by this caused a certain deterioration in the atmosphere at the Inn, such that the more polite clientele abandoned the place and it became more and more a haunt of dissolute gentlemen of obvious means but very little character. Uncle Winston seems to be amused by such types, many of whom go on his hunting expeditions. One of them even got shot last week, but he survived. I think it was an accident.

Well, back to the bird...they had taken to giving the parrot strong liquor! This would cause him to become more raucous than ever, and to rave on madly, flapping his wings and breaking into the most filthy bawdy songs which these wretches had schooled him in. Aunt Penelople swore off going to the Inn because of this, saying it was a disgrace.

The upshot of the matter was that the poor bird apparently drank itself to death. One night in an alcoholic frenzy it had consumed several shot glasses of scotch whisky and was swaying back and forth on its perch, belting out one verse after another of "Barnacle Bill the Sailor", possibly the most obscene song in history. Suddenly the parrot stopped in mid-verse, made a strange sound, and fell off its perch! This was met by a roar of laughter from the audience, most of whom were as drunk as the bird, but their laughter soon turned to alarm when the parrot showed no signs of life. They rushed it over to the bar and attempted to revive it by fanning it. "Get back!" yelled Uncle Winston. "Give him air!" Then Bertie Matchless ran up with a shot glass of 150-year-old whisky, the best in the house, and said, "Try this! He'll come back from the dead for a shot of William Wallace '1855'.

It almost worked. They poured a teaspoon of the William Wallace, held it in front of the bird's beak and prayed silently....

The bird opened one eye blearily, fixed its reddened and failing gaze upon the William Wallace, and downed it in one last spasmodic effort, then shuddered and expired!

Uncle Winston says that at least he died happily.

Happily!!! He says the parrot died happily! The real truth of the matter is far deeper and darker than just a tawdry tale of an irresponsible drunken toff who schools an innocent animal into depravity and causes it to die of alcoholism. Oh no! That's just the surface of this grisly tale. The parrot was carefully chosen by Wellington-Jones to represent the Pre-Babylonian God Thobachet, a death god propitiated by hideous bachannals and human sacrifice! Acolytes gather at the idol of Thobachet, a beaked bird-man, where they drink and drug themselves into a killing frenzy, primed for the sacrifice!

What has really been occuring after hours at the Vicar's Inn, where Winston and his minions gather nightly, except when he is off to clandestine meetings with other key figures in the New World Order, such as, for example, Dick Cheney and Arturo Espinoza?

What has been occuring in the catacombs under Rutledge House? Nothing nice, I can tell you that!

What significance is there in the colour scheme of the bizarre zebra-striped Porsche recently given by "Uncle Winston" to his young niece, Veronica Rutledge, and is she being prepared to be sacrificed in a manner quite similar to that of the Lady Diana Spencer????

It is my opinion that Penelope Rutledge has gone over entirely to the lizard-men and sold her soul for a place in the international ruling order. As such, her niece is being groomed to take her place as a symbolic sacrifice to Thobachet.

I fear the end will come soon for Veronica! But not if this column arouses the sort of public response that would demand an investigation and a full disclosure of the Truth! And that is why you, yes you, have been called upon by this column to stand up and fight now for humanity in the final hour of destiny!

I am Hector Ballsworthy and this is the *** Independent Press ***!


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