On Dec 2, 1958, new blood joined this earth, and quickly was subdued: through constant, pained disgrace–the young boy learned our rules. What he felt, and what he’d known, never shined through in what he’d shown: Never be, never see–won’t see what might have been.
Mark Hills was a lover of music who would’ve easily caught the Metallica homage in the previous paragraph. Through Mark’s DJ equipment during the small part of their life in which he was involved, Mark’s children learned to numb the world with music.
Mark died on January 7, 2019. Throughout his life, arbiters of the corrupt culture that killed Mark Edward Hills–they labeled him as he would have labeled them: unforgiven.
The embattled and beaten son of long-dead drunk Thomas J., Mark Hills grew up among many petty pseudo-puritans, as an emotionally confused and sexually constricted child.
“If it’s young and has a penis — I’m gonna fuck it, and I’m gonna suck it, until my poison starts spraying!” -Mark Edward Hills, former Public Relations Vice President for the North American Man-boy Love Association (NAMBLA).
Decades later, in a letter sent from a cold and stinking prison cage, Mark would confide to his daughter about the sexual purgatory that he had endured during his childhood, which had relegated Mark to discovering sexuality not through the normalcy of heterosexual experience or even instruction:
Instead, Mark’s proud and prudish parents, preachers, and teachers simply withheld, from boys such as Mark, any and all knowledge of girls and women; and so Mark was condemned, from his earliest sexual experiences until his last, to slither in the shadows of social-disdain and self-disgust — sucking his shit off of other boys’ penises, and having them suck their shit off of his.
Later from that jail cell, after mixing up a page meant for another condemned and sending it as part of a long letter to his daughter, Mark talked of his happiness during shit-covered orgies in the prison showers–confiding accidentally to his shocked daughter (and to me, his daughter’s then-husband) that which he had intended to confide only to a particular member of the shit-covered orgies: That the particular member was Mark’s favorite, that amid the furious festivals of shit, cum, and occasional blood–through it all, Mark held a special place in his rectal heart for that guy.
Finally Mark had fully embraced the living-hell into which he had been flung as a child. Mark Hills never lived to see miserable victims such as himself championed as “gay heroes” among a death-cult addicted to depopulation conspiracies.
Similarly, predeceasing Mark was his first grandchild, whom his daughter and ex-wife conspired to legally murder in order to preserve the daughter’s potential to earn a piece of paper by proving that she can sit in rows and fill out forms. (More than a decade later, Mark’s murderer-daughter, once beautiful and blissful but by then bloated and boorish by a life spent hating life, finally limped her way to the paltry paper, and spent the rest of her life pretending to believe that such a silly reward was worth having murdered her child.)
When Mark was a child, men and boys who were tortured into wasting their time and potential through homosexualism–they were almost always further scapegoated and terrorized for acting on that deviant coping-mechanism.
And when that terrorizing finally happened to Mark, the soulless journalistic parasites–desperate to report first on the drama–who swarmed Mark’s young wife (aka the woman who was formerly her own father’s rape-toy, and who would later murder her own first grandchild while chasing the mythical “greater good” of her chubby, boring daughter’s academic knighthood), also swarmed Mark’s young children–ages ~3 to ~7–at the same time: shouting questions at them all about their opinion of the homosexual child-rapist for whom they had, for the entirety of most of their short lives, served as a beard.
Mark Edward Hills is dead now. He probably died of AIDS, or some other disease of misery and neglect. In any case, he died as he lived: a scapegoat of the kind of culture that would level 28 charges, including 21 felonies, against a lifelong victim of arrested-development–as punishment for the overgrown child continuing the only coping-mechanism that he was ever consistently afforded: Consensual sex with other miserable, neglected, tortured boys.
His children, saturated by their obedient reverence for the death-cult, hardly noticed the vanishing of their patriarch, as they continued their hobbling sprint towards their own early ends–just a few more scrambled sacrifices to a utopia promised (always to others) by the death-cult.
Eventually, this unflattering eulogy was discovered by those who never knew Mark died, as well as those who had long-since happily moved on from using Mark’s slow and painful death merely as a reference-point for their own slow and boring lives; and all the fake rage that any of them could pretend to wage–was squandered, yet again, into their howls against reality.
And the more informed of them readily declared, “Now, I’m certain that this evil Lucifer Russ Lindquist deserved to have his children–Mark’s grandchildren–stolen and estranged from him, for disclosing to them that, before they were born, their grandmother wanted them too to be quick, convenient deaths.”
And in the blink between his cage and coffin–Mark Hills, raped raper of children, visited with Russ’s children, whom, by that time, Russ had not seen in nearly a decade; because diseased child-rapists can be easily reintegrated into the lives of the living-dead — far more easily than it is to reintegrate those who tell inconvenient truth.
-Russ Lindquist, January 12th, 2019