doing.'
He
lowered his spoon and used it to stir up the mess of food on his tray.
I
wanted to ask him what he meant, what he knew of what had happened to me.
'The
third stage was The Killing of the King,' he said, interrupting my thought.
'Ten miles south of the thirty- third degree of north parallel latitude between
the Trinity River and the Triple Underpass in Dallas… and that was Dealey
Plaza, the site of the first Masonic temple in Dallas. Used to be called Bloody
Elm Street, and here they brought the King of Camelot, John Fitzgerald Kennedy,
and they sacrificed him.'
Schembri
was looking out towards the mass of people that surrounded us. He nodded his
head slowly.
'They
killed the King, you see? Killed him right there in front of the world. And
that was the greatest trick of all.'
Schembri
looked back at me.
'They
had this picture from that day in Dallas. You've seen this picture, three bums,
three hobos in custody. Hobos with good haircuts and clean shoes. Those three
guys were just released without identification, though folks interested in what
really happened have always believed that there was some significance to the
presence of those men. I'll tell you who they were. They were symbols, Masonic
symbols, because every time the Freemasons kill someone they have three
unworthy craftsmen present, Jubela, Jubelo and Jubelum. They were there. They
had to be there. They were as much a part of the thing as anything else.'
Schembri
smiled again, that same wry expression that said more than could ever be
expressed in words.
'Kennedy
wasn't killed for political reasons. They didn't kill him because he was trying
to stop the Vietnam War or close down Bell Helicopters. It wasn't even because
he was trying to stop the segregation of the blacks. They killed him because
they could. They wanted the world to know they could take the most powerful man
in the world and blow his head off on TV… and that no-one could do anything
about it. Who actually shot him will never be known. Those details will die
with the people that pulled the triggers and the folks who organized it. I
should imagine the gunmen themselves were dead within an hour of the incident.
Oswald was no more responsible than you were. Kennedy got caught in a
triangulation of fire, a classic CIA strategy. The entire flood of disinformation
that followed, the CIA-Mafia-Anti-Castro-Castro-KGB-Texas Right Wing theories…
all of it was planned a year before the assassination. The people that put
Kennedy there took him away again.'
Schembri
looked away, for a moment an expression of sadness in his eyes.
'You
see everything changed after November '63. The whole world changed. America
started down the tubes. Quality of life deteriorated. Music got louder, drugs
got into the mainstream culture, even down to the clothes people wore. No longer
cotton and natural fabrics, but artificial, garish-colored, ugly. America
realized that whoever could kill their President in broad daylight could do
anything they wished. No longer was there one man, the Chief Executive of the
nation, but some unelected invisible fraternity. And that same fraternity gave
us LSD and psychiatry, free love, pornography, violence on the TV, everything
that made it okay to be nuts.'
Schembri
nodded his head.
'They
took away the King of Camelot and gave us the Wizard of Oz. We exist in a
palace of unreality, we are manipulated by invisible hands, and always in the
distance is the awareness that somewhere there are people who know who we are,
what we are doing, what we will do next, and when necessary they push the buttons
and pull the strings and it all slots into place as it was designed.'
I
opened my mouth to speak but Schembri went on.
My
food was already cold.
'Kennedy
was a visual leader, a man who won the hearts and minds of a nation through the
TV set. People
He
lowered his spoon and used it to stir up the mess of food on his tray.
I
wanted to ask him what he meant, what he knew of what had happened to me.
'The
third stage was The Killing of the King,' he said, interrupting my thought.
'Ten miles south of the thirty- third degree of north parallel latitude between
the Trinity River and the Triple Underpass in Dallas… and that was Dealey
Plaza, the site of the first Masonic temple in Dallas. Used to be called Bloody
Elm Street, and here they brought the King of Camelot, John Fitzgerald Kennedy,
and they sacrificed him.'
Schembri
was looking out towards the mass of people that surrounded us. He nodded his
head slowly.
'They
killed the King, you see? Killed him right there in front of the world. And
that was the greatest trick of all.'
Schembri
looked back at me.
'They
had this picture from that day in Dallas. You've seen this picture, three bums,
three hobos in custody. Hobos with good haircuts and clean shoes. Those three
guys were just released without identification, though folks interested in what
really happened have always believed that there was some significance to the
presence of those men. I'll tell you who they were. They were symbols, Masonic
symbols, because every time the Freemasons kill someone they have three
unworthy craftsmen present, Jubela, Jubelo and Jubelum. They were there. They
had to be there. They were as much a part of the thing as anything else.'
Schembri
smiled again, that same wry expression that said more than could ever be
expressed in words.
'Kennedy
wasn't killed for political reasons. They didn't kill him because he was trying
to stop the Vietnam War or close down Bell Helicopters. It wasn't even because
he was trying to stop the segregation of the blacks. They killed him because
they could. They wanted the world to know they could take the most powerful man
in the world and blow his head off on TV… and that no-one could do anything
about it. Who actually shot him will never be known. Those details will die
with the people that pulled the triggers and the folks who organized it. I
should imagine the gunmen themselves were dead within an hour of the incident.
Oswald was no more responsible than you were. Kennedy got caught in a
triangulation of fire, a classic CIA strategy. The entire flood of disinformation
that followed, the CIA-Mafia-Anti-Castro-Castro-KGB-Texas Right Wing theories…
all of it was planned a year before the assassination. The people that put
Kennedy there took him away again.'
Schembri
looked away, for a moment an expression of sadness in his eyes.
'You
see everything changed after November '63. The whole world changed. America
started down the tubes. Quality of life deteriorated. Music got louder, drugs
got into the mainstream culture, even down to the clothes people wore. No longer
cotton and natural fabrics, but artificial, garish-colored, ugly. America
realized that whoever could kill their President in broad daylight could do
anything they wished. No longer was there one man, the Chief Executive of the
nation, but some unelected invisible fraternity. And that same fraternity gave
us LSD and psychiatry, free love, pornography, violence on the TV, everything
that made it okay to be nuts.'
Schembri
nodded his head.
'They
took away the King of Camelot and gave us the Wizard of Oz. We exist in a
palace of unreality, we are manipulated by invisible hands, and always in the
distance is the awareness that somewhere there are people who know who we are,
what we are doing, what we will do next, and when necessary they push the buttons
and pull the strings and it all slots into place as it was designed.'
I
opened my mouth to speak but Schembri went on.
My
food was already cold.
'Kennedy
was a visual leader, a man who won the hearts and minds of a nation through the
TV set. People
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