Rothschilds: Calling Sister Midnight

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Author: Soren Dreier


They sneak up, like predators in the night.

Scheming and weaving strange fabrics of the underworld that nightmares are made of. Resembling the hellhole of a Mumbai sweatshop, where the age of twelve would make you a senior supervisor.

Never mind the battle of Waterloo, where they spun their lies, enabling them to parasite the modern economy, suck it dry, pump it up, suck it dry and pump it up, and those basics steps are still moving. The rotten child had its finest hour at Waterloo, bred and breathed into Rottenness Incarnate.

And the hellish saga continues.

Bringing nations down, young women selling themselves on the highways of Greece, parents abandoning their children on the doorsteps throughout the European continent. Every European country’s name is: Greece, they just made us look that way.

The monster’s hand rocked the Greek cradle.

We’re all f’cking Greeks, and borders are lamp posts for their hired politicians to piss up against, in the nasty: divide and rule game.

The wind has a strange wailing to it, when it blows down the desolate streets of once productive cities, taking a curve through scattered glass of abandoned houses, whistling its ghastly tune in rooms once filled with joy and laughter. Up the chimney it goes, ever so playful. Crows have the couch now. Nesting.

They are the black eyed people and they really don’t like the clear rays of the sun. Maybe that’s why they own the weather services and the skies, filled with their nasty chems. I would suspect they were behind, they don’t need the consent of governments, they would tell them and they would obey. No problem in this deal.

We don’t see and feel their presence. Ghostly, illusive, yet so obvious.

But suddenly they emerged, shape-shifted into somehow human form and rose from the slimy hole in witch they thrive so fine.

The Rothschilds.

Owners of Israel, the EU, Reuters and I really can’t tell you what they don’t own.

The one’s that impose your downfall, they own. The one knocking at your door, they own. The conditions of your prison cell, they own. Whether you believe yourself to be in custody or not.

The coming war on Iran, it’s their design, they don’t own Iran. At least to my knowledge, if you could tell me they did, I wouldn’t be surprised at all. The magnitude and the lack of transparency here, is so well manufactured.

Prelude to Waterloo Version 2012 popped up:

Strangely announced by the Matrix, and that’s no coincidence since it’s a smoke signal to the hunters of The Rotten Childs Clan, to return from the hunt. Back to the slime hole.

The Bugle called:

“No more money to hijack in Europe”, just the loop of “the same money not being there anyway”, and they already pulled the plug, and you are at risk here unless you take precautions to cover your sweet arses.

This is how a bugle would sound for our time and age:

Even their Royal subordinates in The Illuminati pyramid game, are shitting their pants here or taking a nervous piss. I’m sure.

And that would be the Kingdom of The Roth, showing who calls to the modern guillotines of Europe……twisted and bended, ever so lethal.

©2012 Soren Dreier

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