On 05/13/2020 I filed criminal charges with a letter to the Attorney General
of the Federal Court of Justice in order to initiate the legal evaluation of
my decades of persecution on fascist motives.
On 05/19/2020 I found the following letter in my mailbox:
The the Attorney General of the Federal Court of Justice declares itself to
have no jurisdiction.
On 07/02/2020 and on 07/24/2020 I sent an extended version of my letters with
criminal complaints, which I had filed with public prosecutors, to police
authorities of the Federal Republic of Germany.
Citée en tête de Céline, Voyage au bout de la nuit
C'est peut-être ça qu'on cherche à travers la vie, rien que cela, le
plus grand chagrin possible pour devenir soi-même avant de mourir.
Céline, Voyage au bout de la nuit
Du fond du grabat
As-tu vu l'étoile
Que l'hiver dévoile?
Comme ton coeur bat,
Comme cette idée,
Regret ou désir,
Ravage à plaisir
Ta tête obsédée,
Pauvre tête en feu,
Pauvre coeur sans dieu!
Vis en attendant
L’heure toute proche.
Ne sois pas prudent.
Trêve à tout reproche.
Fais ce que tu veux.
Une main te guide
À travers le vide
Affreux de tes vœux.
Un peu de courage,
C’est le bon orage.
Verlaine, Via dolorosa
Même sur un banc d’accusé, il est toujours intéressant d’entendre
parler de soi.
Pendant les plaidoiries du procureur et de mon avocat, je peux dire
qu’on a beaucoup parlé de moi et peut être plus de moi que de mon
crime.
Étaient-elles si différentes d’ailleurs, ces plaidoiries ?
L’avocat levait les bras et plaidait coupable, mais avec excuses.
Le procureur tendait ses mains et dénonçait la culpabilité, mais sans
excuses.
Une chose pourtant me gênait vaguement.
Malgré mes préoccupations, j’étais parfois tenté d’intervenir et mon
avocat me disait alors:
Taisez-vous, cela vaut mieux pour votre affaire.
En quelque sorte, on avait l’air de traiter cette affaire en dehors de
moi.
Tout se déroulait sans mon intervention.
Mon sort se réglait sans qu’on prenne mon avis.
De temps en temps, j’avais envie d’interrompre tout le monde et de
dire:
Mais tout de même, qui est l’accusé ? C’est important d’être
l’accusé.
Et j’ai quelque chose à dire.
Mais réflexion faite, je n’avais rien à dire.
D’ailleurs, je dois reconnaître que l’intérêt qu’on trouve à occuper
les gens ne dure pas longtemps.
Par exemple, la plaidoirie du procureur m’a très vite lassé.
Ce sont seulement des fragments, des gestes ou des tirades entières,
mais détachées de l’ensemble, qui m’ont frappé ou ont éveillé mon
intérêt.
Camus, L' Étranger
Coming out: Nameless suffering.
At some point, I may have been twelve or thirteen years old, my hitherto
carefree life had become very difficult and painful:
I no longer understood myself.
An ego disorder and a demarcation problem, no boundary at all between
inside and outside, between ego and world, spoiled my sojourn among people
to the point of its impossibility.
Some philanthropists at my school deemed it smart to make fun of my
suffering and persuaded me to participate in a play -
Morts sans sépulture (Men without shadows) by Sartre.
I knew I would make a complete fool of myself.
But since I was asked so imploringly, I didn't want to be a killjoy or a
spoiler.
In doing so, however, I underestimated the criminal energy and baseness of
my fellow men:
They ensured a full house and presumably, for the more effective
realization of this jointly and deliberately planned and committed crime,
the presence of suitable personalities.
A classmate - a proven aficionado of theater and film with justified
ambitions for a sky-rocketing career as a cinematographer - recorded the
spectacle.
Since we had all performed so beautifully and since the performance was
overall a well-received success, a small tour of our troupe was already
being considered.
This plan was finally abandoned:
Obviously they were satisfied and had successfully switched me to the
track intended for my future ridiculization:
I deeply regret not being able to feel grateful enough.
Coming out: A misnomer for my suffering.
In late autumn of the year 1988, I rang the bell three times during one
day at my neighbors, the L. family, because I felt threatened.
However, nobody opened the door: I still cannot say with complete
certainty whether anyone noticed me.
On that day, I also rang the bell with my neighbors, the W. family.
They opened the door for me, and I asked if W., the son of the L. family,
had just been with them.
Since the question was not understood, I apologized and left.
It was, undoubtedly, a weird performance.
After I had revealed my state of mental confusion to a friend and my
father, I consulted a medical doctor, Dr. F., on their advice at the
beginning of January 1989.
Months of outpatient and inpatient treatment followed.
At that time, I was a student of mechanical engineering in the third
semester, for which I called in sick.
In the next semester, I was able to resume my studies and earn my
intermediate diploma in the spring of 1990.
Hypnosis
Later in the year 1990, unfortunately, my health deteriorated again.
Through mediation of a school friend I came into treatment of an
alternative practitioner (Heilpraktikerin), a curly-blonde,
Aryan-homeopathic, promotionally-healthy and altogether-sympathetic
alternative to the Judaized conventional medicine, Mrs. G.
Treatment took the form of hypnotherapy.
For the ever old-school, then still science-believing health insurance,
unable to appreciate innovative and revolutionary methods of treatment,
the hypnotherapy had to be hidden under a suitable, more
traditional cover:
The insurance company had to be cheated in the name of progress by an
obviously megalomaniac shaman!
During hypnotherapy - Do I have to emphasize that I was in no way
hypnotized? - I also mentioned my particular sensitivity to noise,
especially door slamming, as well as my impression that everyone was
laughing at me.
My condition continued to deteriorate. When Mrs. G. wanted to refer me to
a hypnosis clinic, I broke the treatment off.
As a woman, she felt I was suffering from a lack of self-confidence.
I wondered if she suffered from a tit or brain damage, or both:
I was desperate and seriously ill, but had to have it revealed to me that
I had come to an alternative practitioner out of a lack of
self-confidence.
Dumber was impossible.
I realized that as a woman who was fond of herself and who liked to talk a
lot, she had to serve everything I said still hot to an inclined, outraged
and horrified, but actually morbidly fascinated, audience.
In order to make the temptation sweeter for Eve, I decided to give her
excellent material, exaggerated and lied, while being scrupulously
attentive not to say anything punishable by law.
I suffer from a nervous disorder and, as a reasonably rational person, I
decidedly affirm that such a disease has not the slightest thing to do
with sexuality.
However, I am sufficiently familiar with the nonsense of Freudian
psychoanalysis to know that there everything is attributed to the sex
drive.
In front of the alternative practitioner G. I took the liberty of
advancing the absurd hypothesis, perfectly Freudian, that my suffering
might in some mysterious way be explained in terms of sexuality: I had the
inkling of thereby flattering her female taste.
I wanted to buy this woman: Finding a cheaper one was impossible!
Her whole decades-long income activities as an alternative practitioner
are nothing else than professional fraud, covered by the injustice state
Federal Republic of Germany .
A decades-long crime that she thinks she can be proud of, just because it
is condoned.
My wildest fantasies as to the stupidity, cowardice, vanity and mendacity
of a part of this world and its inhabitants should pale in front of
reality.
My family and I became, against any law, victims of unprecedented
misdemeanors that, out of cowardice, do not deserve the name crime.
True, it is brutal what these representatives of healthy folk are doing to
us.
But it is even more brutal what these representatives of healthy folk do
to themselves.
For one cannot sink any lower:
Everything that should constitute the West, that should define, us, the
Occident, has been betrayed:
Rule of law, fidelity to the constitution, human rights, human dignity,
humanity, humaneness, freedom, truth, science.
Millions, to whom we have dedicated monuments, memorials and commemorative
sites, whose decency, courage and sacrifice are invoked on public
holidays, died fighting for these values.
They were not understood, but betrayed:
The monuments, memorials, commemorative sites and public holidays were
worth nothing.
Later, during darkest years and years and decades and decades of
defenseless and powerless suffering, I wondered:
Was the greatness of this deed too great for me?
Chronicification
The termination without notice
In December 1991, my father attempted to terminate the tenants of his real
estate property without notice due to a serious breach of trust.
We had been robbed and the tenants had let total strangers into our house,
including a God-blessed thief who performed the crime of theft for his
audience, as defined in the German Penal Code, without charging any
entrance fee.
However, the tenants refused to accept the notice. In the course of the
year 1992 my father conceded without court dispute.
I had been avoiding any conversation with the tenants for quite some time.
But one young woman decided to move out.
She had caught my eye about a year earlier, weeping in front of our house.
Later that day, she had my worried mother comfort her at our dining room
table.
I felt sorry for her and actually wanted to ask what was wrong with her
and how it might be possible to help.
However, due to my nervous disorder, which also manifests itself as an ego
disturbance, I could not possibly speek with her, which pained and
preoccupied me.
This event transformed her for me into a Beatrice or a Laura: Seen once,
never spoken and never forgotten.
I had also mentioned the young woman vis-a-vis the alternative
practitioner G.
If someone claims now that my complexescoerced her into moving out
I must reject this as gross nonsense:
I really can't be held responsible, if the alternative practitioner G.,
directly or indirectly, made her afraid of me.
Spain: ¡Todo bajo el sol!
In January 1992, I traveled to Madrid for an internship. There I shared an
apartment with two other men.
One worked nights and came home around six in the morning.
After about two days, he started slamming the door in the morning, with a
force that almost made you fall out of bed.
In Spain, my health situation deteriorated further and rapidly.
By virtue of reading the great Peruvian intellectual Mario Vargas. Llosa,
here the essay volume La verdad des las mentiras, the story volume
Los jefes and the story Los cachorrors, I was trying to
fight the decline.
Finally, during a short, one-week stay in the Basque town of Vitoria,
where a Daimler-Benz plant is located, I decided to leave the beautiful,
sun-blessed country in a hurry to abort my internship.
In Vitoria, the organizers made me change apartment twice.
I shared the first two apartments each night with one different man.
In the third apartment, where I spent the rest of the week, I encountered
a woman and two teenage girls.
By their account, they were a single mother and her daughters who had
moved from Barcelona, Catalonia, to Vitoria, Basque Country.
Because, fortunately, I could even talk to them, since they spoke not only
Basque and Catalan, but also Spanish.
After about a day, a young German woman joined us as an additional tenant.
On my hasty departure from Vitoria after a week, I pressed the rent for
two months into the hand of the landlady.
She thanked me profusely and expressed her regrets about my departure,
since she saw such a nice young man in me.
I spent the last few days before my departure, more or less delirious, in
the "Hostal Filo" at the
Plaza Santa Ana in Madrid.
I had the impression that they had evacuated the whole
hostal to make room for about thirty passengers of
a bus whose arrival I had observed in front of the entrance.
My entire sojourn in this hostal was additionally
severely disturbed by senseless, loud door slamming and other inexplicable
noise on the floor above.
Need I mention that I did not harm anyone in Spain, nor did I commit any
other crime there?
When the day of my departure had finally come, the cab drivers, very
annoyingly, were on strike:
I still made it to the airport, albeit late, so I had to transfer to
another flight.
With my last ounce of strength, I managed to reach Strasbourg airport via
Paris-Orly.
While I waited for hours into the night for my parents, whom I had asked
by phone to pick me up, I noticed a motorcade of black sedans and vans
with gorgeous blue light flashing, moving majestically leisurely through
the darkness.
Apparently, I was invited to admire the stately caravan of a, by virtue of
her values, for the well-being of the world immensely important, worth
protecting person and her, admittedly, very impressive bodyguards.
In the Fatherland
Back in Germany, I tried, despite my poor health situation, to complete my
studies: I started a student research project at the Institute of
Measurement and Control Engineering. My supervisor was Mr. Z.
Everywhere I was treated like dirt or, at best, patronizingly pitied.
Everyone felt called upon to ridicule me.
It was a witch hunt, another crime against me, that of incitement of the
people to hatred.
I don't know how many crimes have been committed against me, I've lost
track and can't keep up with counting.
My life felt like it was portrayed in the movie
The Truman Show with Jim Carrey:
It felt unreal.
I wasn't living, I was just trying to survive until the spook would
finally be over.
The physiotherapist's daughter
There was the daughter of one of my parents' physical therapists, C., then
perhaps seventeen years old, who had been frequenting our house for about
ten years.
My father, I think, was sort of a surrogate father to her, since she had
grown up without the presence of a father.
All of a sudden, she started hitting on me to mock me, pretending to be
interested in me and absolutely had to be there when I was taken once
again, for degradation, to the rehabilitation center in
Karlsbad-Langensteinbach.
I ignored her mockery, because, somehow, I had to kill time.
So we watched movies together and went to dance classes
I didn't enjoy it at all.
She imagined having the fun of mockery and was allowed to be part of a
supposedly righteous, kitchen-psychology folk project of not even a
regulars' table level.
And after all, as is the way with some women, she felt pretty and wanted.
She's really not ugly, but her mind is - I'll allow myself to give credit
to the truth - completely childish, hollow and narrow.
If C. claims that anything has been done to her by me or anyone else in my
family, this must be punished as pathetic slander:
It may be disappointing and hurtful for her vanity, but nobody was
interested in her as a sex object.
She is just trying to suck up to the majority and the prevailing opinion.
C. is nothing but a feather in the wind.
The gift of life
The gift of life, it was poisoned.
Do you throw it away?.
Every second I thought about it then.
But since they obviously wanted to murder first me and then my family for
no reason at all, I had something against it and wanted to fight.
I was dealing with serious and heavy criminals, who had the comic desire
of being revered as saints in society.
Any means was fine for these people, as long as they could maintain the
appearance of innocence.
I, too, wanted to go to the very last limit to slam the world a surprise
in the face, to teach it an unforgettable lesson for eternity and to
expose this pathetic, cowardly crime, which doesn't even deserve this
name.
Sometimes you run out of steam and survive only by chance, luck, bad luck,
providence, whatever you want to call it, or by the fate that my former,
completely criminal neighbor Mrs. W. wanted to inflict on me.
Today I know that my former neighbor Mrs. W., as a woman, does not only
confuse impertinence with self-confidence, but also criminal energy with
women's power
To her excuse, we concede that this can happen to any somewhat
underexposed woman as a woman.
But after winter comes spring, even if you feel like shit. Summer follows
inevitably, it seems.
And aren't some women really somehow pretty, somehow interesting and
somehow not stupid at all.
Not as a woman, but just like that.
In this beautiful season, I met a young Spanish woman, N., in the year
1993, and considered her, actually true, attractive.
Of course, I didn't know whether she was part of the Truman Show or
real.
She had learned German, was learning German, and spoke German well.
I had learned Spanish, was learning Spanish, and spoke Spanish well.
There were common interests and common activities.
At the quarry pond, she convinced me of the immaculate shapeliness of her
body.
All according to protocol: Start by holding hands!
We made a trip to the Black Forest, and I showed her the cathedral of the
city of Freiburg.
Apparently she loved being provocative:
Te estoy toquando en una iglesia! she said.
And so she did.
Even though much, or all of it, sucked, I almost felt a bit alive:
Boy meets girl. Un homme et une femme.
I remembered the novel Brave New World by Aldous Huxley.
In this dystopia, one' s role in society is determined before birth.
Genetic manipulation is used to ensure general satisfaction.
This way, social peace is secured: No one conceives of the absurd idea of
questioning anything.
Old-fashioned social phenomena, such as criticism, conflict, disobedience,
rebellion, revolt or even revolution, have finally been overcome for the
benefit of the world population.
Feelings are genetically abolished as a danger to society. At any sign of
discomfort, soma is administered.
Unfortunately, in the case of one of the protagonists, the genetic
manipulation was not a complete success:
An unfortunate operational error in the lab turns this character into the
other one, the stranger, including troublesome feelings
While reading, I felt a certain identification with this lamentable
laboratory accident.
On the return trip from Freiburg to Karlsruhe, it came to what I want to
call here, euphemistically, a Brave New World incident.
The mistake I made would not have been a big deal, since fortunately
nothing happened:
I could have had my driver's license suspended for it.
Of course, I had no intention of hurting the woman who in the weeks
before, to some degree, had brought me back to life.
The young and attractive Spanish woman N., who apparently could not
remember this passage from Huxley, had forgiven me.
Directly after my mistake we kissed.
We were a couple for some time and dutifully had something akin to sex.
When we were no longer a couple, we remained friends.
In 1997, I visited her in Madrid.
She asked me, Y tú, ¿porqué estás siempre tan triste?
By now she will know the answer to her question.
Because in 1999, her behavior changed completely - as did that of all of
my contact persons - even if they pretend to be still friends.
I lost all my friends, if I still had any, at that time.
My friends turned into enemies who commit nothing but crimes against me.
As we kissed in the car on the highway parking lot, I saw in the rear view
mirror two smirking, obviously education-remote, men in a vehicle parked
behind mine.
They had me tailed, completely illegally.
The education-remote smarty pants abstained, however, from suspending my
driver's license, since that would have betrayed the tailing.
Respect: Quite peasant shrewd!
Nevertheless, this cunning will painfully backfire.
The men I had seen in the rear view mirror later came up with the
aforementioned bosom wonder from Villingen-Schwenningen and must have made
contact with the young and attractive Spanish woman N. in 1999.
It's all about framing me for crimes, humiliating and degrading me.
Probably these felons, in complete distortion of the facts, have framed me
for dozens of crimes that are actually other crimes against me.
Nothing goes to court, because there, not I, but the actual criminals,
most serious and heavy felons, would be sentenced to enjoy a life term,
including full board, free of charge, as inmates of a correctional
institution.
Instead, it is claimed, although in my entire life I have never committed
a crime according to the German Penal Code, that I do not even deserve a
constitutional judicial process.
These criminals have committed a pathetic crime against the young and
attractive Spanish woman N. and me.
If we lived in a state under the rule of law, both, those who ordered the
unlawful tailing and those who carried it out would not be walking around
freely.
Coercion and assault
One evening in 1994 - I was sitting at my research project in the
mezzanine - there was suddenly loud noise and laughter behind our house.
Twice, the door slammed loudly. One could reach this volume only with a
deliberate expenditure of energy.
One thought, the window panes would shatter.
The loud slamming of the doors, sometimes with a striking laugh, continued
from that day until January 2007: ten, fifteen, or twenty times a day, our
windows were shaking.
My father once said that, when Mrs. L. closed the door, you fell off the
chair.
But it is not clear for sure who slammed the door or who or what created
the sounds.
The constant door slamming had a catastrophic effect on my health. I felt
like a soldier in the trenches under artillery fire and hardly dared to
leave the house:
Every time it hit me in the face like a fist: Since then, I've been
staggering through life like a battered boxer through the ring.
I tried to advance my student research project and diploma thesis in the
basement to escape the noise.
To no avail: I was forced to live and work in the Black Forest for long
periods.
I laboriously dragged myself through the tunnel to the diploma certificate
in 1997. However, in a certain sense, I have never written a student
research project or a diploma thesis in my whole life.
In 1998 I began working as a socially insured software developer.
Collapse! Two times, please!
In 1999 I started a new job at the company m..
One morning, as I was about to enter the office building, I came across a
man who looked like my medical doctor, Dr. F.
What was he doing here?
My fellow student R., with whom I had prepared for many exams and with
whom I had done a lot of sports - swimming, cycling and running - invited
me one weekend on a cycling trip.
For the approach we used his Volkswagen bus, in which one could also
transport the bicycles.
To my surprise, he chose a tour in France, probably somewhere in Alsace.
He parked the Volkswagen bus on a country road directly in front of a
Gendarmerie.
Accidentally?
What is the probability of driving to France and parking the vehicle on a
country road directly in front of a
Gendarmerie?
Obviously, R. had deliberately chosen this area and knew how conspicuous
this parking lot was.
The secretary of company m. told me, completely unbelievably, that she was
related to both my father's and my mother's family and how small the world
was.
Good friends invited me regularly to Sunday soccer fun, where I was much
needed as a head ball wonder.
In defense, though to the chagrin of my good friends, I was a safe bench
on which one despaired on some days:
Today I just can't get past him!
My exploits on the football field, of which the whole world had taken
note, had therefore naturally to be commented on wittily by the managing
director of the company m.
Obviously, the world was perfectly all right and everyone appreciated me,
if they did not even secretly love me.
One day I noticed an article in our local newspaper BNN (Badische Neueste
Nachrichten) which reported in a criminal case about a type of pedophilia
unknown to me until then, in which men commit crimes against small
children and even babies.
I wondered if such a deviation could exist and if this article was fake.
During this time one evening, I received a phone call from a man who
pretended to be my medical doctor, Dr. C., from a rehabilitation hospital
and also sounded like him. He inquired about my condition, where I worked,
and the name of the managing director of the company.
I did not understand why he wanted to know the name of the managing
director.
I often made my way to work by bicycle.
In doing so, I had to cross in the morning and in the evening a bridge
over a road near a kindergarten.
For a while, I wondered in the morning about a great number of children of
early kindergarten age holding hands with adults on and behind the bridge,
walking conspicuously away from the kindergarten.
Where did they regularly go to in the morning?
Sometimes I went to the office of the company on weekends, too. On one of
these weekends, I lay down on the floor because I was dizzy. In an
everyday conversation, the managing director, Mr. H., later casually and
senselessly interspersed the sentence that he could as well lie down on
the floor.
Did cameras monitor the office?
All this made me suspicious and confused me. Therefore I sought a
conversation with the managing director and an employee.
I explained that I had been suffering from a psychosis in the past
and asked for my dismissal without notice.
The answer was: Insane? If it is nothing else!
Mr. H. even remarked, full of comprehension, that his sister had also had
a psychosis.
Meanwhile, nothing really mattered anymore to me. I submitted at least two
notices of resignation, but after persuasion by Mr. H., I withdrew them.
I did nothing apart from switching the computer on in the morning, sitting
in front of it, going to the toilet from time to time, and switching it
off in the evening. I didn't even talk to my colleagues and superiors
anymore and asked myself why they wanted to keep me employed:
I no longer understood the world. But surprisingly, in the meantime, I had
married.
One weekend I wanted to retreat to the Black Forest with my wife. Before,
we had to supply ourselves with provisions.
In the car, I waited for my wife, who had gone alone to a market to buy
food. Suddenly I saw Mr. Z., the supervisor of my research project,
laughing in the company of a woman, crossing the street in front of my
car. The only strange thing was that about an hour and a half later, at
the Offenburg exit of the A5, which we had to take on our way to the Black
Forest, I saw Mr. Z. again, in the same company behind a car parked in an
openly visible area, crouching with laughter.
How did he know that we would pass by here?
I suffered a first breakdown in the spring of the year 2000 which
hospitalized me for about two weeks and terminated my employment at the
company m.
With my wife, I attended a church service later in the year 2000. The
small congregation sat on the chairs in anticipation. Four or five people
began to photograph the gathering in detail from the front.
Firstly, I hadn't authorized those photographers. Secondly, I wonder who
these photographers were and for what purpose they took those photos. I
felt too bad at that time to protest or inquire.
The sermon was about Faith, Love, Hope: I had mentioned these
virtues during hypnotherapy with Mrs. G.
In this free church, the liturgy stipulated that the truth be revealed
after the service.
The small congregation had risen from their seats and conversed in groups.
A youth with brown, curly hair, handsome and certainly a head taller than
me, very likely a real ladies' man, approached me and proclaimed the word
of God:
You're a stupid motherfucker!
After that service I drove home with my wife, infinitely blessed:
I decided to frequent this church more often in the future, to serve God,
respectively the handsome youth, more often, because it was so inspiring.
Someday, a few weeks later, it was the autumn of the year 2000, I
definitely had enough and had a second and much heavier breakdownn that
led to months of hospitalization.
The elite of the earth
At this point, I would like to happily thank my tormentors and persecutors
for the beautiful criminal feat that, as pointed out more than once, no
longer deserves the name crime:
Congratulations to all those involved! I do not know how many were
participating.
But I know that it was the scum of the earth.
In the Federal Republic of Germany, supposedly a democracy and a state
under the rule of law, unfortunately neither the people nor the law
prevail, but injustice enforced by a megalomaniac mob that considers
itself an elite.
Instead of serving the state, as befits civil servants, they brazenly help
themselves to its resources for personal, unconstitutional purposes, as in
the juice store that was not run by a former chancellor.
And instead of assuming responsibility, they prefer to wreck the
unimportant state to save their important - or beautiful, painstakingly
and devotedly maintained - asses:
And immediately a thought occurs to me, for which I want to be hated even
more, that it must have been Christians and women, in addition I donate
womanizers, who betray humanity and humaneness to creep up the asses of
wenches, at whose skirt-tails they are hanging.
It is always the stupidity and the stupor, sometimes the mental illness,
as with the National Socialists or as with fundamentalist Christians, who
kill, just like that, innocent people, even innocent women while riding a
bicycle or jogging.
It's not men who murder women!
Do you understand that, women of this world, can you understand that or is
that beyond your grasp as women?
However, to simply murder just like that, is, with good will, still within
the realm of the human.
What has been done to me is no longer within the realm of the human.
First I ended up, once again, in the rehabilitation hospital
Karlsbad-Langensteinbach for two or three weeks, with the dedicated Dr.
C., of whom I had been suspicious for a long time and now even more so.
Where else should I go when apparently my whole fatherland had broken bad?
A few days after my release, it was a sunny spring day, I met with my wife
in a coffee shop near the little church on Kaiserstrasse in downtown
Karlsruhe.
I looked through a window onto the street and happened to see a
bad-tempered Mrs. G., who of course had no business being there at that
time of the day - early afternoon - as a self-employed alternative
practitioner, but had come especially for me, accompanied by a crying
woman whom I could not recognize for sure, but, in retrospect, it could
have been the wife of my fellow student R.
They were in a bad mood and crying because I was still alive.
For this I apologize profusely: It is really scandalous that I did not
kill myself a long time ago.
On 02/04/2016, I presented this story to the lawyer S., who, reportedly,
later suffered a fatal car accident.
He said there was nothing one could do, everything was statute-barred, and
so on and of course: As a mentally ill person, I was a second-class
citizen.
For this instruction through the mouth of a lawyer, he charged 50 € plus
19% VAT.
The lie is a tactical weapon that leads, strategically employed, to
self-dismantling
What I have narrated and alluded to here is in fact not at all
statute-barred, as it is nothing short of jointly committed, attempted
murder.
Obviously, someone played deliberately, at considerable financial expense
and with psychiatric consultation, on the keyboard of my illness for the
amusement of a morbid public that is not only blessed with a lack of
common sense but also just happens to be into stories with mentally ill
idiots.
In truth, the mentally ill are people who, while denying reality, are
excruciatingly sane and content with themselves and the world.
The events of the years 1999 and 2000 in my sorrowful life - especially
the senseless employment at the company m., the conspicuous
Gendarmerie, the gig of the psychiatrist Dr. F., the fake article about men
committing offenses against toddlers and babies, the children on the
bridge on the way to work - were, of course, no coincidences, but
premeditated and carefully planned acts that cost at least my annual
salary at the company m., about 40000 DM.
How were the psychiatrists Dr. C. and Dr. F. persuaded to participate in
this felony? Were they forced, with money?
For thoughts needed to be seeded:
I must have done something wrong:
My crime must be so heinous that I don't even deserve due process of
law!
But what?
You look for embarrassing moments in your life and for mistakes that you
have made.
Something involving a child? But how do they come up with that?
Oh no, now I understand: Do you really want to do this to me?
Years ago in their living room, my fellow student R. and his wife once
played with me the game Trivial Pursuit.
Their daughter, then not much beyond toddler age, came running up to me,
prompting the mother to say to my fellow student R.:
Don't let her get so close to him, you know I don't want that!
At the time I was amazed and thought:
Why do you say that? Surely you know I wouldn't hurt your child!
Now, however, I remembered an even longer ago embarrassing incident with
R's daughter.
They had persecuted and tormented me for years, provoking mistakes and
embarrassments from which glorious crimes could be constructed and pinned
on me.
Finally and delightedly, they thought they had me.
Or do I finally have them?, I courageously asked myself.
In fact, the little child had been the only joy in my life, in which I was
degraded every day and deliberately harassed, ridiculed, mocked, and
tortured so that I would kill myself or lose my mind for
disenfranchisement.
And now I should have had nothing better to do than hurt this beloved
child of all people?
Absurd. Tragic. A joke, of course, a crime against me.
But then again, I have a disposition that allows me to lose my mind and
get lost in a maze.
For me, it's a serious, painful disease.
For others, it's an Achilles heel that can be exploited for hilariously
comical entertainment and the even more comical obliteration of my entire,
completely innocent family.
I was stunned: They really wanted do this to me:
And these murderers want to be saints!
The felons had already wanted to finish me off by suicide during my stay
in the Basque city of Vitoria or in Madrid before the return flight.
If it had succeeded, one would have heard gruesome, but in the end
certainly entertaining accusations, especially from the women from the
third Vitoria apartment, to whom I did absolutely nothing.
For these planned crimes of defamation, you need a defenseless dead person
or a disenfranchised inmate of a mental institution.
I really don't know if, by now, it's jointly committed attempted murder or
jointly committed murder, if my father, mother, brother, wife or son are
still alive:
Have they been replaced with similar looking, surgically re-engineered
criminals?
In the years 1999 and 2000 they have deliberately and successfully
planted, at some financial cost, in my mind the idea that I have done
something to R.'s daughter while denying the wordless accusation.
This is tantamount, of course, to torturing a human being:
This is the plain truth and nothing but the truth: They torture innocent
people in the Federal Republic of Germany.
In the name of what?
Indeed, these wonderful people pretended to be completely ignorant.
My particularly dedicated psychiatrist Dr. C., according to the
Hippocratic Oath always committed only to the welfare of his patients, was
really very amazed:
But Mr. Pfefferle, what makes you think that? You know perfectly well
that you would never do such a thing.
During my thirty years of suffering, I had a big problem:
I had no proof.
I've only had evidence since 2016.
At the time, utterly desperate, I actually wanted to go to the police,
which I had been avoiding all along because I didn't know who was
responsible for the myriad of crimes and, moreover, I had no evidence.
As if in confirmation of the caution I had been exercising so far, Dr. C.
smugly explained to me:
But Mr. Pfefferle, what do you think they will do if you go there?
They'll bring you right back here!
There you go again, my big problem:
Although I was right about being accused of having committed a crime
against a child by a planned, not quite cheap script, everyone denied it
and the police wouldn't have known about anything either.
Had I looked for help from the police I would probably have ended up
disenfranchised in a psychiatric institution!
One well earned enemy is worth a thousand friends
Occasionally, good friends visited me in the psychiatric clinic under the
direction of the dedicated head physician Dr. C. of the
Karlsbad-Langensteinbach rehabilitation center.
He invited my good friends to longer conversations behind closed doors,
among others my fellow student R., whom he also thought very highly of, as
he later confided to me, and the public prosecutor V.-K..
Regrettably, I had to remain outside, since, after all, they wanted to
talk undisturbed about me.
Unfortunately, I have to assume that my good friends took pleasure in
being lied to.
These saints knew nothing about anything, but were probably in time on
site with the camera to enjoy the fruits of their labor and to share them
fraternally with the lustful public.
Gorgeous, just as planned!
Now there had to be a back story:
To this end, the disciples of Hippocrates destroyed annoyingly boring and
altogether disappointing records of my treatment in order to replace them
for the public taste with more appropriate ones.
A psychiatrist still employed by Dr. C., who later attended me in the
rehabilitation center Karlsbad-Langensteinbach, explained to me that Dr.
C. had made no records whatsoever of my more than ten years lasting
treatment.
Unfortunately, this is impossible.
Dr. C. destroyed his records or let them otherwise disappear, in order to
be able to indulge his fantasies on white paper attributing them to me.
Man is a project
Man has an idea of what he - actually, but at present not yet - is.
L'homme est ce qu'il n'est pas et n'est pas ce qu'il est.
Sartre, L'Etre et le Néant
This is true not only for the individual human being, but for the whole
human race, which, through Nietzsche, has dreamed up its next goal,
thesuperhuman.
The great health, the blond beast, the
will to power were in truth a nightmare.
But the core of the thought superhuman, namely that we are a
project, not only as individuals but also as the species, is by no means
only the nightmare of a madman.
The Journey to the End of the Night ends as soon as we have
permanently the feeling of having realized our self.
The light of the accomplished self-realization displaces the darkness of
self-alienation:
The night is going, the day is coming.
Whoever has reached this end of the night, the dawn, is presumably ready
to die fulfilled at any time.
In the years 1999 and 2000 I said goodbye to this, in many ways, cruel
world and died as a human being.
As a zombie, I crawled through the time that I wanted to kill.
When I would eventually get better, I wanted to make the truth public.
If I succeed now, it doesn't matter if I live or die:
I have given my life a meaning and told a story:
My life is to be a sacrifice for the people who deeply suffer from a
nervous disorder but are, by popular misconception, inaccurately labeled
mentally ill.
I will have myself murdered here.
Until my last gasp, will I despise this world.
But I had and have sworn to myself, to win, beforehand, after losing
almost all the battles in this war, the war itself, even with a mortal
wound.
