reSee.it Video Transcript AI Summary
I am recounting my story from the 1980s in Los Angeles, beginning in 1985 when I was just under two years old. I attended rituals described as satanic but labeled as part of the Canaanite religion. I claim I killed dozens of people at these events, and that I did so as part of these rituals.
My parents denied all of this. My mother was a hippie, and my father was an engineer and computer programmer who worked with robots; I was his greatest robot. At the rituals, hundreds of people, about 300, gathered in the basement of a giant Los Angeles mansion. They would sacrifice kids, and next to that circle was a box painted on the ground—a golden rectangular box. A man dressed like Moloch, buff with gold body paint and wearing a bullhead helmet, stood at the edge. When our fathers, our handlers, dropped us off, Moloch would raise his arms. This is the Moloch, and this is the golden box. The blonde and redhead kids sat in the golden box and watched Warner Brothers cartoons, waiting to be used for the rituals.
I was in the front right quadrant; the red-haired girl was in the back left quadrant. The kids in the golden box were essentially child actors. Instead of calling these rituals, they were called routines. Before entering the circle, we received a bloody handprint on our faces. A woman, described as busty and topless, wearing a mask, would come out with a tray of blood. A guest would remove their hood, approach the golden box, dip their hand in the blood, and press it against our faces with the middle finger parallel to the nose. The bloody hand mark was common in America, with variations like the mark of the beast, the wild animal symbol, or a reptile claw dragged from the top down.
We would then be painted and cleaned up to watch cartoons again. One ritual called hugs involved adult hugs that were not affectionate; they were sexual. I recall the dog humping my leg during one of these moments, which I misinterpreted as hugging. I have fond memories of the red-haired girl, who attended that first year, 1985. We performed a “wild animals” routine where, instead of following exact scripts, participants improvised while several people watched. I was placed on a cart and pushed toward a table covered with blue tarps; in the middle lay a trough of organs, with the red-haired girl nearby examining the intestines. We were sedated humans to be treated as animals—began slowly, then grabbed and touched organs, escalating to biting as a human body. The scene was messy beyond blood, including various internal contents.
There was a bar area with barrels of alcohol on a wagon, and a German schnitzel girl with blonde hair and pigtails. I sat on a circular table with arches at the ends to separate drinks, and I ate a cracker at the end of the events, which was smeared with a substance that tasted like blood and spice. I refused to eat it one year and my father came over with his Boston accent, saying, “They’ll kill you mother.” I eventually ate the cracker and watched a cartoon of a black cat named Pussy Foot, which showed a cat drinking milk slowly and closely. I had to imitate the cat’s licking and then assume a “kitty” position on the ground. They would then pick me up by my sides and place me in front of a woman’s vagina for the orgies, where I would look away.