Tyrone's WWASP Article

Please keep in mind this is the rough-draft version, without any changes for grammer and other such changes. Kev, Bill and Milla have already seen/read this. This only the tip of the iceberg of what I could write about, and just may be that.

I hope this is found to informative and such. Things that I left out are details of the seminars (no written legal agreement notarized by an attorney in the presence of witnesses, no contract, especially with a minor in a foreign nation), and the strange, sadistic behavior that the boys would adopt while over there, as Bill stated numerous times.

So, here it goes:

What follows now is a brief, scattered recollection of my experience in "Paradise" Cove, Western Samoa.

I thought it was funny when my mom kept taking me to strange places to get strange tests. I thought it was just because of routine health check. Ha! She did all of the stuff because she was asked to. I know from what I've heard that once the program discovered that I had a passport already, they immediate abduction was arranged. I also know this from cancelled checks that indicate that January of 1996 was supposed to be my first month, but those sons of bitches couldn't find me in the Las Vegas area, as I know every passage and path from Red Rock Canyon to Lake Mead. Mostly, I hung around UNLV, and if somebody tried to kidnap me there, the UNLV PD would make a pretty big stink.

My stupid mother told me we're going to Los Angeles. Not wholly unusual. That also made me come home, to pack stuff. I packed movies and stuff, my usual stuff from going to LA. Like the rest of us, I had no idea I was going to a Soviet-styled concentration camp. When we got to the airport, she said she "had to meet a friend" in the Hawaiian Airlines gate (and because of Hawaiian's involvement, and well as another airline directly owned by these bastards, I wish all the ill will of flight business an airline could ever get, which has happened by God's own hand). If you would like to see this gate, please watch The Net starring Sandra Bullock, because it's the gate where she's eating pizza and waiting for her plane to take her to her vacation destination.

There wasn't any friend. There was Terry from Deathway, that faggot-ass looking slimeball, and black Ben with Boobs, as Corey Murphy used to call him, and a bunch of program cronies. One takes me to the bathroom and pushes me into a stall and tells me, "Do this the hard way or the easy way." I tell him to go fuck himself, that I was recently tested at school and discovered to have a high IQ for a teenager (which the school district suggested to my mom to send me to an academy, like a military or vocational academy, not a fucking death camp) and I will not wear his little prison uniform nor will I be going anywhere. Well, he does a stupid number and tries to wrestle me in the bathroom stall. Go going, jerk. LAX PD shows up and arrests him, his little group of programmed morons, and Terry the moron. LAX PD says that if I don't want to fly on any plane, I don't have to. Also, a crowd has gathered to watch this all. AND EVERYBODY IS ON MY SIDE! Witnesses report that they say el jerko force me in to a stall and other witnesses report on what they heard between me and it (will not address anybody who wants to become a robot with human terms). LAX PD really gets upset, and takes these people away. Ben with Boobs, the black piece of shit that he is (and he lives in Utah?) ran off during the whole thing, so I know they didn't arrest him. Asshole.

Side thoughts about all of this, but I told my mom recently that wrong is wrong, no matter how many people think it's right. I told her that if this "program" has to abduct people to get prisoners, and do it without trial by jury, evaluation, and other Constitutional protections/provision/requirements, then how is this "program" correct in its implementaion when it is wrong to begin with? She started to cry (this in 2007, just a few weeks ago, folks, not back in 1996). I told her that all religions, including the Bible-based religions (Islam, Judaism, and Christianity) state that if you do wrong, wrong will be further manifested. An example is the snowball effect of lying, and one lie will begat another and another, until the person who originated the lie is a in a personal pickle of shot and burned reputation amongst his peers. Well, it's the wrong is wrong principle. So I explained to her that didn't some red flags go off when LAX PD arrested everybody? If the program's methods are "legal", then why did LAX PD want to arrest them? My mom thought about it. Well, a decade too late.

Another side thought is that Federal law dictates (and FAA rules) that if a passenger of any origin of any age doesn't wish to be aboard an airplane, train, or bus, or any other means of interstate/overseas travel, then that passenger has the Right to partake and participate in that mode of travel. In other words, kids, we could've screamed and hollered and made a distraction once on the plane, and we would've been taken off, and in the LAX PD or other airport PDs' holding area, we could've told our full statement to the cops, demand protection for fear of our parents and of the ill intent we sense, and wish to represented by a child advocate and/or public defender of the public's interest. Nice that I know this now, from taking Pre-Law in college, but what I have written is true under Federal law and FAA rules. And one question I have for myself about this is why didn't I do the kicking and screaming?

A week passes. I return to Las Vegas after spending a few days in LA doing my whatever I usually do in LA (go to Little Tokyo and buy import anime, manga and video games). Apparently my mother never knew I liked anything. I assumed she thought I was a burnout or something, I have no fucking idea. When I returned in 1998, all of valuable posters from Japan (including silk wallscrolls of anime and video game characters), my handwritten screenplays and comic book layouts, everything was gone. Trashed. I did file a lawsuit on her in 2005, which she settled for out of court for a mere $25,000. That's the base-value of my works and collectibles. She also later told me, about a week or so after they finally kidnapped me illegally, that all of sudden all of these job offers came in from places I applied to work at, from grocery stores to the Virgin MegaStore in Caesar's Palace. Oh, whoops. Wow, I must've been such a burnout that I wanted to get a job and support my "habit" of self-studying movies and television shows to make a living. Wow! I didn't know that ambition was a bad thing, to make my own name by my own hands to become something! Wow! Holy shit! I better go to a torture prison for my personal ambitions of wanting to make a living in what I love! Fucking bitch. Seriously, my contact with my mother presently is minimal at best. I have no love whatsoever for her, and I will NEVER trust her. Period! I just moved on from her. I only visit her house for my step-dad, who has never been informed of the whole situation. He once sent me an asshole letter when I was in the program, but if he was well informed, he would've stopped it because he grandparents were tortured by the Turks in Armenia not so long before his birth. My mother lied to him and told him it was a "gifted school for youngsters" like what? Professor X's place? Uh, yeah. And I'm Cyclops.

One day, instead of sleeping in my room with my guns (I love guns, and though I have the right to carry one where I live, I refuse to carry one because I don't trust myself), I decided to sleep on the couch. Mistake. The fucking Atwoods show up and drag me out of the house and into their car. If they had to come in my room, I would've shot them, and happily tell a judge about the abduction attempt and self-defense, and I would've given up my guns to the police without question. But for whatever reason beyond my cosmic comprehention, I decided to sleep on the couch in the living room. I think I was watching anime all night, or Quentin Tarentino's best stuff at the time (Pulp Fiction, Natural Born Killers). I had a notebook with me, which means I was jotting down ideas for a movie or TV show. Ergo, that means I must've been studying the scripts. Anyways, the Atwoods threw me into their car and drove to some building on Spring Mountain and Decatur, or that area thereabout. If anybody comes to Vegas and contacts me to come over to meet and greet, I'll take you to this building. I know right where it is. Well, from there, they give me something to drink and I get drowsy. When I awake, I see the Atwoods arguing about which freeway to take to Inglewood and LAX. I could give them directions, but that'd put them in the middle of Koreatown and gangland territory, where I had some pull and "homies" that would've wondered why I'm in the back of car full of white people (I'm yellow, by the way, so it is unusual). However, they take some strange freeway instead. While asleep, they also handcuffed me. Nice, folks. Real nice.

They check into a hotel near LAX, and rent the room on the top floor. So, even though I could've jumped out, the fall would hurt pretty bad, and I also didn't want to wander through a black gang neighborhood in Inglewood for fear of getting whacked. In retrospect, I'd take my chances getting whacked.

They brought food up to the room, and one Atwood was always seated by the door. So fuck that as an idea, right? In the morning, they made where that stupid little Deathway uniform and hauled me off to LAX in "riot cuffs" or those little twisty plastic wires that cops use in riots (as see on COPS on Fox). Again, back to the Hawaiian air gate, and before confirmation of flight, they put a flannel on me and a hat, and then went to the gate agent. She said I can't fly if I've got those straps on my wrists. So they cut it off with pair of some tool I'd never use. That left marks on my wrists that looks like I tried to slash 'em. Idiots. Absolute idiots. WOW!

The flight was uneventful, got to Hawaii and there were "guards" waiting. One was from New Zealand, which I kept insulting. When asked what our "issues" are (issues are for magazines, folks, not "problems") everybody said the program thing. Not me, I said maybe I'm here because I wrote a novel. The fuck if know, really. They all stared at me. Seriously, my mother is a stupid and naïve bitch would sent me to this place. The results of her actions says she liked paying people to torture me. The school district says an academy, my mom sends me to get tortured. Strange, huh?

Well, when the plane is ready again, the "guards" put us back on. We get to Pago Pago, and we have to wait overnight with that motherfucker Lafi at his house. Geez, anybody think of running away to the American Samoan governor's mansion and asking for amnesty? Why I gave up, I'm not sure. Maybe I had hoped for a wee bit for it to be like that motherfucker Terry said about a beach "resort".

Upon arrival, those bastards, Brian "I Only Where Nike" Vaifauna and his ass-buddy Duane "I Always Where Sunglasses, Even at Night" Lee take us to there little Hilterite death camp, Le Tiarra. Excuse my spelling on that location, as I'll write in a variety of ways, including Le Tierra, Le Tearra, etc. All during this time, Corey Murphy and I have been talking. He's told about what a bitch his mother is and some other things about his sister, Kasio. There's an article about them somewhere on the Internet.

Side thought again, but I can't believe Corey's dead by suicide. And I don't buy his mother's false account of events. Corey, when I say him, has slashes on his wrists that were healing. I know his mother drove him crazy, and if she didn't want to have children, then she didn't need to have 'em. Corey deserved better. He was easy to get along wish, pretty bright, and dead honest. He only never acted like a program robot around me, only others, to save his own ass from beatings. I read in that Internet article that when visiting Le Tierra, the reporter found notebooks in the school building (I will not use Samoan words to describe anything, as I hate the language and the way the natives acted). Actually, it was more of dungeon.

The first kids we meet are TJ Bentley, Ryan and Tommy George. These three were forced to retain their levels by doing "limbo". In the old days, the program only went to Level Four. TJ and Ryan were Level Three, Tommy was Four. And limbo. Wondering what that is?

Limbo, according to Jason Dain, TJ Bentley, Chris Fenton, and others, was this vigorous and torturing labor-work. You'd have to rebuild walls and buildings, jump into the the septic tank and drain it/clean it by hands, you'd eat food then do exercises (I will not refer to exercises as "skills" as skills are acquired by the hands of an expert, and exercises were just that). If you threw up, "Class" Two for the whole group. And the more exercises you'd have to do. The so-called "consequences" were called "Classes" back then. I don't know why. I'm just going to write punishment in it's place. Anyways, limbo was used as actual fear. If you got cut, injured or anything, even breathed wrong, you got punished with more "Class" Twos, from Level One to Level Four. Also, it didn't matter who you were, any "father" (hereby known as "staff") could put you on limbo. So other rules of limbo were constant running, even in place, and carrying a sandbag at all times, no matter what. Sleep was also lessened, and you had to eat all the little food on your plate. Talking was a forbidden, and essays must be written constantly. Limbo was discontinued when we got there because Brian "I'm in Love with Myself" Vaifanua brought it Alan and Christina from Australia, who didn't share his torture belief. They made sure all of us got to watch a movie every night, had good food and lots of it, hot water and such. They also took care of toe infection I got the second day I was there, and yelled at the staff for cutting the skin off of my toe instead of allowing me some simple tweezers to remove the splinter that started the whole mess. Alan and Christina also brought it many carry staff members who tried to use love and realization instead of fear and torture. Every one of these guys were fired within a month after Alan and Christina left. They were at the program for about three months. Christina didn't like the way Shitcrease and Dumberman did the seminars, either, and brough it Oray, this little Jewish man, who again used love on us, instead of brainwashing and torture. He was fired after doing one set of Discuntery and Fuckus seminars. Why? Because he didn't believe in torture, Alan and Christina didn't, and so forth and so on.

Like I've written, everything was fine while those two were there. But when they quit because of Brain refusing to turn on hot water, everything went to hell. We hand to clean everything in the ice cold mornings outside and in, then live by a whistle that went off every hour, and such. No rest, food went into the shitter, kids screaming to refuse, the Dungeon was always full and the teachers and nurses unqualified to teach us our school. Then also comes Dace. Dace was cool to me for only one reason. Science fiction novles. He borrowed mine and gave me some. That was that. But, man, did Dace marry a cow of a wife.

For a few months, I was bounced from Le Tierra to Faga beach. Between Levels One and Two. At Faga, I was put into Happy "family" (I will no use group in place of family). Talk about a bunch of assholes. What surprised me about Faga, other than the dirty conditions, was that they were on the Alan and Christina schedule. Movies every night, good food, etc.

I'd like to mention that I'm leaving out aspects like how we couldn't ever talk with out permission and such. Go to the bathroom, get permission. Talk to your friend, get permission. Fart, get permission. So forth and so on. We couldn't do anything. Even masturbate to release our tension. Heaven forbid that, right? Also, our religion had to be Mormon or else. No ifs, ands, or buts, that was that.

Now, I don't know if I'm born under a bad sign or what-not, but upon arriving to Faga and un-Happy group, Brian and Duane Lee changed the schedule to the same at Le Tierra. Ah, shit, you know? By this time, I've done no schooling at all. It's been about either months and only had two letters come from home. By this time, I had stopped writing to my mom and started writing to nobody, just wacko thoughts. From memory though, I had listed every movie and video game I owned (or thought I still retained if I were to ever get back). That list was gold to me. My calender was destroyed by some Level Six (now we had those two level brought in) called DK. We also had this ugly Mormon bitch called Sonia, who is directly responsible for my imprisonment. I hope she's dead now. She bugged me all the time about nothing really. Again, at this point, I never said I had any problems because I didn't have any problems. I didn't bother making anything up because I didn't believe in lying. Fuck the program, self-honesty is a better thing to me.

It was around this time in un-Happy that I started to here strange things about the natives and the boys. I heard how one staff member took two boys over to Fagatele Beach and had sex with them. I don't know if it was willing or not. I heard about one staff named Tuplo or something that made boys give him blow-jobs frequently. I've seen boys go to the bathroom at night and go with the staff around behind the bathroom "stalls" for a period time, no more than ten minutes perhaps. I also heard of upper levels taking boys to other places for circle jerks. This happened while I was on Faga. There was also the sick hut, watched by two upper levels, Josh Roth and a David fellow, who had one foot bigger than the other. That little hut was a homosexual bathhouse for all I know. We'd hear giggling and moaning and other sexual related noises coming out of there all day long. No, those two guys never got in trouble for what they did in there. This is around August 1996. By this point, with the exception of Jason Dain, all the old timers, so to speak, were leaving. A few, like the scumbag Justin Reynolds, would come back. He's a real piece of shit, though.

When I got sent back to Le Terra, there was a cell, I mean hut, for kids under 14. EJ Blickenstaff, a flaming homo, lived in there. I think you know the rest. Even the Samoan staff did things to that boy. That's wrong. He also got kicked out of every seminar I knew of, never able to get past Discuntery. When I was sent back to beach, but to Sinalele this time, EJ was also sent. He and many others did all kinds of homosexual things. The only time I had witnesses directly anything was when this guy name Paulo or something came into out hut during a blackout two days before I left in 1998 and tried to rape a boy right there. I remember being questioned about it the next day, and when I didn't give an answer confirmed to their liking, I was thrown into the Dungeon on Sinalele, until Duane Lee and Dace came down and personally took me out and ordered me to play video games on the computers till shutdown. Strange, right?

By this time, we were forced to work constantly, and do lots of exercises. I went around killing sea creatures and eating them to make up for my lack of good food. People like Dustin Hobbs gave me spices and stuff for porn that friends were hiding in the shirts sent to me. I'd trade those for spices. I shared my spices with the Samoans, who'd then turn a blind eye on it. Occasionally, I'd get pot or cigarettes with a native when nobody was looking. The day after Christmas in 1996, Corey Murphy had been sense, by somebody, well hidden, two little Jim Beam bottles. We drank those. That was good stuff. I also remember, after that day, the shift leader put us back on schedule, after Brian had lied to us and said we don't have to be on schedule till January 2 of 1997. Things only became worse and time went one.

Movies were down to once or twice a week. Everybody had a Jesus thing going, and for some reason or another, I got my ass kicked in Shitability for no reason. In that brainwashing session, the staff there tried to get me to turn against Chris Sutton. No way, man! Sutton had my back at Le Terror, and I just stood there, looking up at him. He stood proud, and I give him props for that. Goddamn do I want to visit him there in prison, tell him he did good. I totally support what he did there and to his parents. They deserved it.

I remember my health going south by now, cuts not healing, puss coming out of everything. I just acted like I cared. But what got me one day was Jason Dain came out of the blue and tells everybody to sign a list if they traded anything. It's not like we couldn't not sign it. An hour later, he tells everybody that we're all Level Ones. THE WHOLE FUCKING PROGRAM!! I go outside and throw my binder at a Edwin, the fucking idiot who did it. I tell to go fuck himself. Dace and Duane Lee come down and remove the punishment a week later. Edwin, according to Dace, is a driver and shift leader and had no business do that. There was a catch though. Any boy who got a CAT during that week remained on Level One. That's when the fake, mean Upper Levels showed up. On was named Tony Cheung, and he liked to harass boys. One day, while my Spirit group was eating on Sinelele, Tony, from Fagatele, comes in, orders us to stop eating and gives us criticism (it's not feedback, feedback is for video equipment, seriously). Our group leader gets the staff to tell Tony to leave. I ask for permission to go "talk" to him after he leaves and I punched him in the face. I go back in and the staff, because I share my spices with him, tells the shift leader that I didn't do anything, who then orders Tony to go back to Fagatele or get a CAT 3 refusal, and that he's not welcome on Sinalele ever again, and that he never got punched by me. He showed up a few times to drop off food or bring new kids down for the torturing, but he never stayed longer than five minutes. It also didn't help that all of the other, new and mean upper levels were my "homies" from the past, and that Tony was this wonderkid who "cruised" through the program. Where is Tony today? I heard a rumor he got his ass kicked when visiting some Andy guy in Las Vegas. I heard another rumor he got killed in Koreatown in LA. Either way, him and Danny Sau, another asshole Korean who "cruised" though the program as losers living as losers last I checked. Eat those results, Shitcrease.

While Brian and Dace tried to cover up the torture camps at times, like by bringing Christian and Catherine, the lady with big knockers, and renting us resorts in the off season for use on Christmas day, it was so fucking obvious we were being brainwashed and tortured by the hippy methods developed in 1960s San Francisco. Nothing could bring back our self-dignity, but furthermore, out lost time. Nobody has the right to do this. Our Fore Fathers believed this and stuck more barriers in the Constitution to prevent this. The RICO Act of 1970 also further prevents this, and other things per state. Some of the last things I did was in Keys to Failure in December of 1997, I told Lou to fuck off and then me and another boy did some fake criticism to each other to avoid punishment. Then I got the balls a few months back to tell Brian, Dace and Duane Lee I'm leaving when I'm 18, nothing you going to do about it. Dace did something. He stuck me on all day school to leave everybody alone. Upon return to Las Vegas, those credits meant nothing, and I was knocked down to tenth grade. My solution, get a GED and get into college. I did do that, by the way. Anyways, I spent the last few weeks off of all day school, and made to play video games on the computers or watch movies in the extra hut that nobody really used. With kids running away and other matters getting worse, and dumb Samoans trying to punish us for no reason, I'm surprised they mostly ignored me except for the case about. I argued with everybody, but nobody seemed to care. I mean, before, when I got kicked out of Shitability the first time, Brian took me in a room and yelled at me, then hit me with a broom, then took me back to the beach personally. Go figure. This time, after walking out of Keys to Failure, he asked me if I liked The Nutty Professor and that if I knew where the video was, which I gave to him.

When I left, I was sitting there in the early morning of January 16, 1998. My 18th birthday. I was talking to everybody, and Edwin comes down, dumps all my stuff into my first tub (I had a second one with spices, riot planes, and shells), drags me up the hill and takes all of shirts, gives me an American ten dollar bill and asks me to wait in the van. He then gets Dace who says to call him if I need anything (I did once, and he blew me off). I later get taken to the office and Brian and Duane Lee shake my hand both. Why, I don't know. Edwin leaves and I'm left with Brian's cousin Peter, who tells in confidence that he totally disagrees with the program, but needed the money and took the job. What the fuck? Right? He gives me back to Lafi and a Level Six and somebody else was with us, and we go watch Tomorrow Never Dies at the movie theater in American Samoa. Then Lafi puts me on the plane, gives me a twenty and not the other kid, and off I go to Hawaii. In Hawaii, Joe and the other cue-ball stateside representative meets me and tells me about the movie Titanic and gets my plane ticket for Vegas. We depart in the airport even though we're on the same plane, and I go to sleep. The movie I was watching on that flight (now that I could buy a dirty magazine with my old babysitter Jenna Jameson on it and some headphones) was Jennifer Aniston in Picture Perfect. Funny, but the movies that were playing when I was kidnapped on March 15, 1996, was Sabrina with Harrison Ford and GoldenEye.

My ordeal isn't over. While many deal with what happened at the program, the program continued out of the shit camp. My mom took some bad advice and made me work at her shitty fast food joints the very day I came back. Oh, like she thought I was having a good time there, looking the way I did. I ended insulting half of Vegas on my first week home, and being thrown into school drove me nutty. I told her to leave me alone, I burned what was left of my tub (a regret now, as I could use all of that stuff as evidence). I also burned her box of stuff and then cleared the house of all of my stuff that survived from before and gave it all away to friends. Then I disappeared into the homeless scene in Las Vegas. I still went by the high school for my girlfriends and such, until a friend of mine made me move in with him. I lived with him for a year, then my mom gave me the house and she moved in with my step-dad. She said I only have to work weekends, so I spent most of my time at college. Life was rough, and the four girls I was heavily involved with (not at the same time) all couldn't understand me and dumped me after I confessed the Samoan death camp thing. The only people who understood were some old Jews who lived in the neighborhood I grew up in. As lawyers or parents of lawyers, they've heard about the death camps, but never knew why nobody has come forward on lawsuit. Remember this is 1998/1999. The older ones who survived Nazi Germany or Soviet Russia talked to me a lot and showed me videos of POWs. After there help, and them telling me the rage I feel is normal for being hurt so much, I went about living. I got me a good woman, and I did my best to forget, even with the nightmares still occurring once a week to this day. Then, in 2005, while playing with Google Earth, I was set off, and memories came flooding back. I did some research, printed it all out and confronted my mother. Since that day, I've been aggressive about bring it up every chance I get. Seems to me she didn't get her money's worth.

Added it by me today:

Recenty, my mother told my fiancee that she can't understand why I came back angry when the ad in Sunset Magazine (I hope that magazine burns in hell) guarenteed I'd be peaceful, better and productive. Yeah. For somebody who survived the Korean War, she sure can't figure that out? She's all bitter about North Korean and how they killed our family, but she can't figure out why I'm angry? Think, McFly, think! (So to speak.)