I apply for a senior technical writer role with Tether.
The pre-interview stage has a test that turns out to be at an advanced web-developer level.
The role is not as described.
However, I do give the test a go, as I am a web dev for my own crypto app and have been working in the field for 25 years.
I do have a PhD in computer science after all.
My mind is not up to the task in the way it used to be and I cannot make head-nor-tail of what I’m doing.
I back out of the process.
I’m now wondering if this was yet another tech-bro set up to check and see if my brain was still functioning as well as it did prior to the switcheroo-porn brain-damaging.
Were they making sure I had lost sufficient cognitive function from the continuous drugging for live-streamed sedated-rape experiences they were all delighting in?
I had thrashed the men at a chess tournament in 2018 at Goldman Sachs, even while depressed and using valium to calm my nerves.
Did the tech-bro community find my once-advanced cognitive skills mortally offensive; a justification for murder?
At one point, there is communication online with regards to how I’ve had enough and I’m not playing anymore.
The following day, I do a Google search on my X name and all I see is fridges.
I’m reminded of Domingo Cano telling everyone at the conservatory I was frigid and wonder if that’s something his other targets are very familiar with on their social media?
I showed my mother this page of fridges on Google search.
We will find out, in due course, that the true identity of the tiny world-saving lucky frog is hugely unexpected, quite the outlier.
While I’m still high (they managed to keep me topped up even while I was in London - see next section for an example of that), the KingForg account becomes another manner of communicating truly with the original trumpet teacher and, unavoidably, the maelstrom of evil forces that surround him.
I take my dad to a rehearsal near Harlow in Essex for the afternoon.
I go off and do some shopping.
It’s Tuesday 15th April.
I buy some shoes at Shoe Zone in the Harvey Centre.
As I’m leaving the shop to head back outside via the theatre square, two very rough looking blond women, one older one younger, do the bump-into-and-distract thing exactly like I see the woman I recognize do to the waitress in Lourdes in July.
I’m walking in the direction I show on the map towards the exit.
They are standing together and they are not in my way initially.
The space is open, there’s no-one else around.
As I walk, they draw closer, then one woman, the older one, sort of walks right into me.
I giggle politely as if she didn’t mean it, say sorry in that British way, and whirl a bit backwards as she does it, just like the waitress does in Lourdes.
I see her face very clearly.
She is blond, about 50, and she looks like she’s had an extremely hard life.
The younger one is also blond, but much younger; could be a daughter.
I don’t realize the significance of it at the time but I’m sure they did it on purpose.
I’m certain British criminal porn-gangs sent them to stalk and upset me, perhaps even Hazel herself asked them.
It’s obvious everyone knows where I am and what I’m doing minute-by-minute.
It’s extraordinarily stressful, you cannot imagine.
However, the whole distract-and-drug thing did not occur to me.
Why would these women be interested in me not remembering these men were different?
It reminded me of another incident back in maybe 2010 or 2011 when my mum and I would go to the Finchley Lido cinema on a Saturday night together and drive down and park outside.
One night, two women who had a similar appearance to these Cambridge women; blond, oldish, sort of Cell Block H types, tried to get into the back seats of our car while we were in the car and getting ready to leave.
I got out and roared at them, I literally roared, I had no idea where it came from, and they wandered off a bit surprised-looking.
We reported it to the Metropolitan police at the time.
It also reminded me of something else, no wait, something else more recently, online stalking, reminded me of this.
Probably in October 2025, just before I left N2, I was threatened online with the Cambridge women who were gonna come down and get me or something ridiculous like this.
Between the previous time I saw them in March, and this event, I had remembered that Susan Hamill had repeated a significant phrase from my police statement exactly like teachers and staff had done at the conservatory of Denia while terrorizing me.
I felt a little uneasy.
The first thing Susan says to me is, “oh do you want an icecream?”, and she goes to get icecreams for her and Sandra.
I declined and thought there was something weird going on.
We went to the pub.
I buy Susan a pint for her birthday, and one for me.
We sit down.
I’m talking to other people.
I have drunk a few sips of my pint and suddenly Susan says, “do you want a chaser?”.
I’m a bit surprised and say no.
A few minutes later, while I’m chatting with someone, she puts a full pint down before me which I don’t really want but I feel I’ve no choice but to accept.
Susan and Sandra leave.
When I get home that night I become extremely unwell.
I spend two days in bed vomiting profusely.
My whole family also get sick in the same way which is particularly concerning.
My father was first to get sick, on the Friday evening after we had fish and chips in Muswell Hill.
The following Monday, Susan posts a picture of a single pint on a pub table with no-one around on the LWS WhatsApp group chat.
The next time I see Sandra at LWS in May, I’m extremely standoffish.
On X, I see a post that evening, “Don’t be rude”.
I respond a week later after thinking about it.
It feels to me that certain vested interests are very keen for me to not attend Let Women Speak rallies, to be afraid to go, to feel in fear for my safety.
I assume those vested interests must be somehow protecting the pedophile rape gangs that stole my life from me and countless other women and girls, and men and boys too no doubt.
Sometimes, at Let Women Speak rallies, it feels like the only people attending are spies.
