The perfect plan

 We have the technical expertise, he already has the technology. After hacking it, we can break up the couple without too many problems. We ask you to monitor him constantly throughout his day because once the device is activated, you will have to ensure that their sexual relations are unsatisfactory. Once this happens and the couple separates, it is very likely that they will decide to leave the apartment. If this is not the case, we offer a post-separation service to help you vacate the apartment. No one will notice a thing; this technology will leave no trace.

This is most likely what the representative of the agency offering its services to Bö was saying.

The old man rubbed his hands with joy. The neighbours rejoiced at the intervention of this organisation; it gave them the confidence that a solution would soon be found. No plan was more perfect than this for getting rid of the annoying tenants below.

In Italy, we say that the devil makes the pot but not the lid, meaning that evil deeds cannot be hidden forever and sooner or later the truth comes out.

So the constant use of this technology over three years hasn't remained an enduring mystery to me, and after reading quintacolumna.net, I set out into the past to reconstruct the actions of this group of cowards.

The premature ejaculation, the psychiatric hospitalization and psychosis, the separation from my wife, the severe headaches and ischemia, the vibrations in my limbs and sleep torture, the twitches in my testicles and the rashes on my armpits, not to mention my expulsion from Germany, were all the work of this group, their daily work, and their service to the community.

Bö just had to sit at the computer all day and observe my life, press a button when I was having sex with my wife, and my relationship with her would soon be ruined. The G agency's statistics probably indicated that couples leave their apartments in the event of a separation, perhaps out of resentment at having been dumped by their partner or because one person alone could barely afford the cost of the apartment. In short, one way or another, the apartment would have been abandoned.

There was no resentment on my part. I know how difficult it is to find stable housing in Berlin, and all things considered, I still loved my ex-wife enough to let her use the apartment. After all, she had found a stable job and could afford the entire cost of the house.

What wasn't in their plans, besides the fact that my ex-wife would keep the apartment, was my stamina and my acumen. Bö had immediately used the theragnostic nanorobot to cause premature ejaculation, then to cause the kidney attack at the end of October 2023, and finally, he had placed this device in my skull to emit electromagnetic fields, causing severe headaches. All this while I was still at home, at B Strasse XX. They were so confident in their plan that they thought I'd never realise it was all their doing. By October 2023, I was certain these attacks were due to external factors; I was already blaming him in front of the psychologists at Weissensee Hospital.

The agency had provided the old man with the technology to monitor my body, probably with the recommendation to dose the interventions to make them undetectable, but the old man, eager to speed things up, had already been caught long ago. I believe the timetable given to him by the agency was not respected; in fact, driven by haste and the discomfort caused by the smoke in the house, he caused the ischemia, which was detected right here in Germany. They weren't supposed to leave any traces, but Bö, thirsty for power and eager to make me pay, didn't follow the instructions he received.

Following my departure from Berlin and the presence of my ex-wife in the apartment, the situation became more complicated. Not satisfied with my departure from the capital and still facing the problem of smoking in the house, what solution remained?

They had no means of monitoring my wife; I was the only one of the two with this technology.

The technology I have works worldwide via 5G, so they had to insist and force me to cancel the rental agreement.

I think I've become a legend within this agency; enduring their torture for all this time is no small feat.

I repeat, Bö, since you're watching, you're crazy if you think I'm giving you my house, you and your Nazi friends, read that again carefully.

I wonder if this group would have behaved this way even with a German, or if the fact that I'm an Auslander made things easier for them, sweeter.

The fact is that the plan evolves and changes depending on the conditions on the ground. Now the battlefield has moved to Italy, Sardinia. The goal remains the same: to obtain the liberation of the apartment.

The tools to achieve this liberation are still the same: the brain implant to see and hear what I do and say, and the theragnostic nanorobot to perpetrate the torture. It's just a matter of having the right amount of imagination to use them best: sleep torture, inflammation and irritation of the armpit, constant live chat conversations to let me hear their discussions. They can no longer play with the organs in my abdomen because of the tumor, but with what remains, they can still do something positive.

In the long run, however, even their unshakeable convictions about the success of the operation diminish. The cancer won't leave much time to continue down this path, and my position remains firm. They must already be thinking of a plan to attack my ex-wife.

They haven't been very successful so far. I haven't begged them to stop, nor have I shared this story with my ex, which they expected me to do immediately to try to quell her unhealthy smoking habit and perhaps hope for an end to this torture. They were counting on me telling my ex-wife about all this, as if she'd ever listen to me. If I'd told my ex-wife this whole story, she'd have thought I was crazy. Now they expect my ex to change her lifestyle once the news of my cancer or my death reaches her. But I know her well enough to know that won't happen, so I'm sure that under pressure from Bö, this organisation will soon change its focus.

Luckily, I already know their methods; I'm describing them in detail after years of trying.

There's a great essay by Fabien Deruelle on ResearchGate: "Microwave radiofrequencies, 5G, 6G, graphene nanomaterials used in neurological warfare," which explains how radiofrequency technologies can be used in neurological warfare. I'm sure this organisation will use this technology to break my ex-wife's smoking will. It's invisible and silent technology. They'll have to be careful, though: other people live in that wooden building, so the doses will have to be calculated so as not to disturb other residents. Furthermore, my loved ones are aware of the whole story; if something similar were to happen to my ex-wife, I hope they'd be smart enough to inform her. Moreover, she's a fighter too; it'll be a long fight for them.

I don't give them any hope. They've seen my ex-wife without clothes every time I've seen her. They've seen me shit and masturbate; through my eyes, they've seen my parents shit when I accidentally entered the unlocked bathroom at home. They deserve far worse than a daily cloud of cigarette smoke or marijuana.

The plan was perfect from the start because this technology is shrouded in global secrecy, no one knows about it, and the independent studies launched into the properties of graphene are far from describing a brain implant that connects to advanced telephone networks present throughout the world and so persistently installed in every corner of the globe, capable of transmitting and receiving data. On the internet, there are links to DARPA research, which has been studying how to make a graphene-based brain implant since before 2010.

Unfortunately for this group, I didn't give in to the torture; I learned what they were doing, how this technology works, and I took everything they did to me. The future will confirm this theory of mine; it's a shame I can't be there to see it.

The so-called perfect plan is showing its cracks because my resistance is initially ignored by the gang, then the cancer shows up, confirmed by their tests, and later the oncologist says I have 10 months to live. Meanwhile, my ex-wife moves on with her life, inviting whoever she wants to her long-desired home and continuing to smoke. The dream of Bö, the other neighbours, and G real estate agency crumbles little by little, even turning into a nightmare with the news of my cancer. I am the key to achieving the long-awaited peace and farewell to the smell of smoke, but I don't give in. It doesn't take much to destroy a dream. I can say it myself: I hoped for a longer relationship with my ex-wife, and I loved living in Berlin.

So a battle of wills turns into tragedy. I know perfectly well how my story will end, but I'm so sorry I can't know how my tormentor's will end. What has become important over time is to make the future even more complicated for him and his gang. I'm putting in every effort to do just that.

Naturally, I invite anyone who's read this far to show up at my ex-wife's house at B Strasse XX, Berlin, with a couple of beers and a few joints of marijuana—it will be the only Latin surname on the doorbell—to give Bö and the whole merry band what they deserve after this treatment. They'll be thrilled to have you there. My ex-wife is a friendly and open person, she'll certainly appreciate the surprise and won't refuse a few words over a cold beer.

If you haven't already regretted what you've done so far, Bö, you'll have time to do so in the future. I'm counting on my ex-wife. Your hands were itchy and you couldn't wait to intervene. Let's play together for as long as I have left. I know you'll be hooked up to this device until my death. I'm already prepared for your company, and I've already told you that I dedicate my life to you, just as you are dedicating yours to me. Surely they hadn't foreseen this end for you when they presented you with the perfect plan.