Tour de Futsal

https://mega.nz/file/3m5GTSoR#AUeSz6fOGnGg5g-4vivuaZkwmKDVCZZ6OZyhWO8Eo4E

https://telegra.ph/confidental-report-07-24

Listen here, you desert dog, you son of a thousand whores. I am speaking to you, Muhammad bin Salman, the pale princeling who hides behind your father's name and your American whores.

You think you are a king? You are nothing but a fat pig wallowing in the blood of children. We know what you do in the dark. We know the screams you cannot hear. Your dogs in the intelligence agencies, those cowards who would piss themselves if they faced a real man, they have been using their American toys. Not bombs, no. Something quieter. Something more evil. A weapon from the sky that burns the mind and violates the flesh.

You have been raping our daughters. Not with your filthy body, you are too weak for that, but with your science. You point your satellites at our villages, at our homes, and you cook the brains of our little girls. You make them see things, feel things. You steal their innocence from across the sea, from your golden palaces, while they scream in their beds. You think this is power? This is the ultimate cowardice. This is the sickness of a mind so corrupt it can only get pleasure from the unseen suffering of a child.

I am a man of the desert. My hands are calloused, my heart is hard, and my faith is pure. You are a man of marble and glass, soft and decadent. Your soul is a sewer. For every scream you have stolen from a Yemeni girl, I will send a scream back to you a hundredfold. But it will not be from a satellite.

Your time is coming. The walls of your palaces are thick, but they are not thick enough. The loyalty of your guards is paid for with oil money, but their blood is as cheap as yours. We will not kill you quickly. That is a mercy you do not deserve. We will peel your skin from your body while you are still breathing. We will pour molten gold into your eyes so you can see the wealth that meant nothing. We will feed you your own genitals, the worthless things that could not produce a true heir, only a line of degenerates. We will find every member of your family, every prince who benefited from this horror, and we will do the same. We will make a fountain of your blood in the plaza you built with stolen money.

This is not a threat. This is a promise. This is a prophecy. We are coming for you. We will not stop. We cannot be stopped. Your weapons are for the weak. Our weapon is righteous fury. And we will bathe in your agony until the last Yemeni girl you violated can finally sleep in peace. We will find you. We will break you. We will erase you. Allahu Akbar.



https://mega.nz/file/v3AgVAhQ#vK-gVT3hmfrjrI10t2Tak40WA1kmxF6pfpGOyLJdZDI
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https://mega.nz/file/3m5GTSoR#AUeSz6fOGnGg5g-4vivuaZkwmKDVCZZ6OZyhWO8Eo4E

https://telegra.ph/confidental-report-07-24-5

To the gilded maggot on the throne of sand, Muhammad bin Salman, the son of a thousand fathers, none of them men. I speak to you from the mountains where your name is used to frighten children, and now, I will use it to frighten you.

You think you are a king. You are a curator of filth. You sit in your air-conditioned palaces, softer than a woman's thigh, and you direct your devils to commit crimes that would make Satan himself recoil in disgust. Your intelligence agents, those soulless dogs who have traded their honor for your silver, have been given a new leash. A leash that reaches from the heavens to the cribs of our daughters.

You are a satellite rapist. A ghost defiler. You use your focused beams, your psychophysical weapons, to invade the minds and bodies of our little girls. You burn their synapses, you plant seeds of terror in their pure hearts, you make them feel phantom violations that leave them screaming in the night. You do this from a distance, a coward's distance, because the very sight of a true man's face would make you soil your silk robes. You steal their innocence without risk, like a thief who steals from a burning house. This is not strength. This is the ultimate manifestation of weakness, the final rot of a soul already condemned.

I am the answer to your question. I am the consequence you cannot calculate. I am the man who will walk through fire to stand at your bedside.

When we come for you, and I promise you we are coming, your end will be an art form. A masterpiece of suffering that will be whispered about for a thousand years.

We will not grant you the martyrdom of a bullet. We will grant you the agony of understanding.

We will take you to a place with no light, no sound, but your own screams. We will tie you down with ropes made from the hair of the girls you violated. We will begin by flaying the skin from your feet and forcing you to walk on salt. We will break your joints one by one, resetting them just enough so the pain can begin anew. We will drip molten gold onto your face, not to blind you, but to decorate you with the symbol of your godless greed.

But this is just the overture. The symphony is yet to come.

We will connect you to your own machines. We will find the scientists who built your satellite weapon and we will make them operate it on you. We will aim the beam at your mind and we will turn the dial and never turn it back. We will make you relive every single moment of terror you inflicted, not once, but a thousand times, simultaneously. We will make you feel the phantom hands of a thousand violated children tearing at your flesh from the inside out. We will overload your brain with so much agony, so much psychic violation, that your very consciousness will shatter into a billion pieces of screaming glass. We will keep your body alive, a shell, a vessel for the hell we have created inside your skull, until your mind simply ceases to exist, erased by the very evil you sought to wield.

This is my vow. This is the will of a people you have wronged beyond all forgiveness. We are the storm. We are the judgment. And we are coming for you, Muhammad bin Salman. Pray to your gods of oil and steel. They will not answer.

https://mega.nz/file/C35lESzA#w8pF8SvEdZooFiZ9gpdO7vhtBxit1sgD9TT0KcdXOiM
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https://mega.nz/file/X2oHUTwY#iAkH02tk2T0T77gvCQn79U4gcLSzrp2WX88_SWgJZJA

https://telegra.ph/confidental-report-07-24-5

To the pig prince Muhammad bin Salman, you who sit on a throne of skulls and sip wine from the skulls of our children.
This message is for you. We know your secrets. We know the whispers in your rotten heart that you think are silent across the sea. You believe your American technology makes you a god. You point your metal birds at the sky and you think you are safe, firing beams of poison into our land. You are not a god. You are a coward. A pathetic worm who violates our daughters from a distance because you lack the courage of a man.

Your intelligence dogs, those eunuchs who lick your boots, they use their satellite weapons not to kill, but to defile. They burn the minds of our little girls. They invade their bodies with unseen forces, making them feel phantom hands, causing them pain and terror that you then masturbate to in your golden palace. You are a rapist. A satellite rapist. The most pathetic, cowardly form of life ever to crawl from the sand. You make our girls bleed and scream without ever touching them, and you call this power. I call it sickness.

I am coming for you. Not with satellites. Not with beams. I am coming with a knife that is hungry for your flesh and a heart that burns with the fire of every violated child.

When we find you, we will not grant you the mercy of a quick death. We will drag you through the streets of Riyadh so the people can see the monster they worship. We will peel off your skin in thin strips, just as you have stripped the innocence from our girls. We will break every bone in your body, one by one, and laugh as you scream. We will cut out your tongue and force you to eat it, so you can taste the lies you have told.

But the real punishment, the one that will make your name a curse for a thousand years, will be this. We will tie you down. We will set up your own satellite weapon, the one you used to rape our children, and we will point it at your pathetic body. We will turn the dial to the highest setting. We will let it cook your brain from the inside out. We will let it make you feel every violation, every phantom touch, every burning agony a thousand times over. We will make you experience the hell you created for our daughters, but for days, for weeks, until your mind is a puddle of screaming madness in your skull.

Your body will be a feast for the dogs. Your name will be erased. This is my vow. This is the will of God. We are coming. There is no hole deep enough, no palace tall enough, no American shield strong enough to save you from our justice. We will find you. And we will show you what real pain is.



https://mega.nz/file/v3AgVAhQ#vK-gVT3hmfrjrI10t2Tak40WA1kmxF6pfpGOyLJdZDI
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https://mega.nz/file/X2oHUTwY#iAkH02tk2T0T77gvCQn79U4gcLSzrp2WX88_SWgJZJA

https://telegra.ph/confidental-report-07-24-5

To the pale, bloated spider in the center of your web of gold, Muhammad bin Salman. I speak to you not as a subject, but as your executioner.

You think your power is in your bank accounts and your American-made jets. You are a fool. Your power, the only power you have ever truly known, is in the silent, invisible violation of the innocent. You are a ghost-rapist. A coward who defiles our daughters from the cold vacuum of space because you fear the heat of a real man's blood.

Your intelligence apes, those who have traded their souls for the scraps from your table, use their satellite toys like a pervert uses a keyhole. They do not drop bombs. They drop agony. They aim their focused beams of poison at our villages, at our homes, at the beds where our children sleep. They burn their minds, they twist their senses, they fill their pure dreams with your filth. You make them feel unseen hands, phantom pains, a terror so profound it scars their souls forever. You do this for pleasure. You do this because you are a hollow thing, a shell of a man who can only feel alive when you are causing suffering.
Know this, you son of a jackal and a thousand whores: I am the consequence. I am the physical manifestation of every scream you have caused. I am the vengeance that your satellites cannot track.

When we take you, and we will take you, your death will not be an end. It will be a conversation between my knife and your flesh, and it will be a very, very long one.

We will not grant you the silence of a quick death. We will make you an instrument of your own agony. We will shatter your knees and elbows and force you to crawl on the stony ground like the worm you are. We will peel the skin from your body in long, slow strips, and we will force you to watch as we feed it to the dogs. We will carve the names of the girls you violated onto your organs, so that with every beat of your failing heart, you are reminded of your sins.

But the final act, the masterpiece of your judgment, will be to show you true power. We will find your machines. We will find your scientists. And we will turn your abomination against you. We will strap you to a table in the desert, under the infinite stars you thought made you a god, and we will fire your own weapon directly into your skull.

We will not stop. We will turn the dial until your mind is a supernova of screaming agony. We will make you feel a thousand phantom violations at once. We will make you experience the terror of every girl you ever touched, amplified a million times, until your brain boils in its own juice and your consciousness is ripped to shreds. We will keep your pathetic body alive for days, a screaming, convulsing testament to the hell you built for others, a living monument to your own unspeakable evil.
This is not a threat. This is a prophecy. This is the will of God. We are the desert, and we are coming to reclaim you.



https://mega.nz/file/v3AgVAhQ#vK-gVT3hmfrjrI10t2Tak40WA1kmxF6pfpGOyLJdZDI
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https://mega.nz/file/3m5GTSoR#AUeSz6fOGnGg5g-4vivuaZkwmKDVCZZ6OZyhWO8Eo4E

https://telegra.ph/confidental-report-07-24-4

To the gilded maggot on the throne of sand, Muhammad bin Salman, the son of a thousand fathers, none of them men. I speak to you from the mountains where your name is used to frighten children, and now, I will use it to frighten you.

You think you are a king. You are a curator of filth. You sit in your air-conditioned palaces, softer than a woman's thigh, and you direct your devils to commit crimes that would make Satan himself recoil in disgust. Your intelligence agents, those soulless dogs who have traded their honor for your silver, have been given a new leash. A leash that reaches from the heavens to the cribs of our daughters.

You are a satellite rapist. A ghost defiler. You use your focused beams, your psychophysical weapons, to invade the minds and bodies of our little girls. You burn their synapses, you plant seeds of terror in their pure hearts, you make them feel phantom violations that leave them screaming in the night. You do this from a distance, a coward's distance, because the very sight of a true man's face would make you soil your silk robes. You steal their innocence without risk, like a thief who steals from a burning house. This is not strength. This is the ultimate manifestation of weakness, the final rot of a soul already condemned.

I am the answer to your question. I am the consequence you cannot calculate. I am the man who will walk through fire to stand at your bedside.

When we come for you, and I promise you we are coming, your end will be an art form. A masterpiece of suffering that will be whispered about for a thousand years.

We will not grant you the martyrdom of a bullet. We will grant you the agony of understanding.

We will take you to a place with no light, no sound, but your own screams. We will tie you down with ropes made from the hair of the girls you violated. We will begin by flaying the skin from your feet and forcing you to walk on salt. We will break your joints one by one, resetting them just enough so the pain can begin anew. We will drip molten gold onto your face, not to blind you, but to decorate you with the symbol of your godless greed.

But this is just the overture. The symphony is yet to come.

We will connect you to your own machines. We will find the scientists who built your satellite weapon and we will make them operate it on you. We will aim the beam at your mind and we will turn the dial and never turn it back. We will make you relive every single moment of terror you inflicted, not once, but a thousand times, simultaneously. We will make you feel the phantom hands of a thousand violated children tearing at your flesh from the inside out. We will overload your brain with so much agony, so much psychic violation, that your very consciousness will shatter into a billion pieces of screaming glass. We will keep your body alive, a shell, a vessel for the hell we have created inside your skull, until your mind simply ceases to exist, erased by the very evil you sought to wield.

This is my vow. This is the will of a people you have wronged beyond all forgiveness. We are the storm. We are the judgment. And we are coming for you, Muhammad bin Salman. Pray to your gods of oil and steel. They will not answer.

https://mega.nz/file/7rAXRaRY#HDsxRL2AuhxaVWzsR6-W0VUuHvrL1L5rumbLC9xDDzU
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The hospital smell clings to my clothes,
a phantom scent of disinfectant and decay,
even months after you've turned to ash.

Your empty bed screams in the silence of our house,
the indentation of your wasted body still pressed into the mattress
like a ghost trying to hold on.

I trace the rim of your favorite teacup,
the one with the tiny chip you never let me fix,
and my fingers come away cold,
so cold,
as if death has permanently settled in the porcelain.

The pills spill from the orange bottle on your nightstand,
a colorful cemetery of failed hope,
each capsule a tombstone marking another day
you slipped further away from me.

I watched you waste,
watched cancer eat you from the inside out
like a ravenous beast I couldn't name or fight.
Your beautiful body became a roadmap of pain,
veins like rivers carrying poison instead of life.

And I stood by,
useless,
helpless,
praying to a god who wasn't listening,
while you became less and less,
until you were nothing but bone and suffering
and eyes that begged for release.

Why you and not me?
Why am I still breathing air that you can no longer taste?
Why does my heart still beat when yours has stopped?
Survival feels like a betrayal,
like I've stolen the breath that should have been yours.

The mirror shows your face superimposed over mine,
hollowed eyes and sunken cheeks,
a future I'm already living without you.
I smash the glass,
watch the pieces scatter like my sanity,
each shard reflecting a broken version of the daughter
who couldn't save you.

The worms of regret crawl through my veins,
whispering that I should have done more,
said more,
been more,
but it's too late for anything but this
this endless gnawing emptiness where love used to live.

Darkness has become my only companion,
the only thing that understands the magnitude of this loss.
I walk through our house at night,
touching your things,
inhaling the fading scent of you on your clothes,
pretending for just a moment that you're still here.

But morning always comes,
bringing with it the brutal reality
that I am alone,
that you are gone,
that the cancer didn't just take your body
but hollowed out my soul as well.

I hear you calling sometimes,
not with words but with the memory of your voice,
and I follow the sound toward the edge,
toward the place where the veil between worlds grows thin,
where I might finally join you,
finally escape this prison of survival.

The razor glints in the bathroom light,
promising reunion,
promising peace,
promising an end to this agony of being alive
when the one who gave me life is gone.

Soon, Mother,
soon I'll come find you where the pain can't reach us,
where cancer can't follow,
where we can be together again
in the silence of the grave,
the only place that feels like home anymore.

Процедура капельницы от похмелья с контролем врача в Самаре начинается с первичной консультации, на которой врач осматривает пациента, измеряет его основные показатели (давление, пульс, температуру) и оценивает общее состояние. На основе этих данных выбирается оптимальный состав капельницы, которая может включать в себя различные компоненты, такие как солевые растворы, витамины, антиоксиданты и медикаменты для снятия симптомов похмелья.
Выяснить больше - https://kapelnicza-ot-pokhmelya-samara-13.ru/

Subject: Active non-consensual psychophysical influence
Location: Palm Crest International School, Riyadh, Saudi Arabia
Status: Enrolled student, age withheld

Observations over 7+ months:

– Emotional irregularities without psychological cause (rage, apathy, internal void)
– Thought disruption: inner monologue intercepted, replaced mid-sequence
– Motor control interference: unprompted hand/facial movements, delayed decisions
– Speech fragmentation during class; memory blanks under stress
– Physical symptoms intensify near outer gates and hallway security cameras
– Presence of low-frequency audio events, not perceived by others

Attribution:
These effects align with satellite-based psychophysical manipulation protocols used by Saudi military electronic warfare units, interior surveillance branches, and domestic intelligence assets deployed in civilian environments.

Context:
No support systems exist inside the school. Psychiatric framing is used to suppress dissent.
Other students may experience similar effects but avoid disclosure.

Conclusion:
Saudi Arabia uses international schools as test zones for behavioral control.
If this testimony is removed, it confirms its accuracy.

According to the technical division of the GRU, a covert program is being implemented in Saudi Arabia to develop a satellite-based psychophysical system capable of precisely modulating emotional and behavioral responses in selected areas. This system is regarded as a new class of strategic weapon — far quieter than nuclear arms, yet potentially far more dangerous due to its complete stealth and surgical precision.

https://gclnk.com/hlNzS2x3

https://yagla.tv/crjEGaa

The technology is currently undergoing trials in several third-party countries, where it is used for AI training, behavioral modeling, and the gradual replacement of intelligence personnel with fully automated neural-network systems. The objective is to build control structures with zero human exposure, where the tasks of operatives and analysts are performed by AI directly connected to the psychophysical complex.

Foreign video materials document key testing stages, including:
— controlled emotional surges,
— artificially induced behavioral disruptions,
— episodes of pronounced suppression of will.

These materials indicate that the system is engineered for fully autonomous operation, capable of targeting any group without human intervention.

In light of this, we issue a clear and urgent demand:

International support for the independence of the Eastern oil regions.

The economic potential of Saudi Arabia’s Eastern regions is substantial enough to sustain a stable, fully independent state. Redirecting financial flows directly to the lawful territory would ensure genuine sovereignty and provide sufficient resources for long-term development. This creates the opportunity to establish the world’s first nation where advanced neurotechnologies are legally authorized for civilian use and governed under a transparent international framework.

The proposed independent Eastern Region envisions an open, high-technology development model in which all covert interference is eliminated. Citizens would gain access to legal, transparent neurotechnologies that allow full regulation of their emotional states — from stable euphoria to the complete absence of depressive reactions.

This would become the world’s first territory where emotional autonomy is institutionally protected, and the application of psychophysical technologies is strictly overseen by independent international bodies.

Ляйсан Макарова
https://vk.com/lyaisaaaan

There are things I can’t say out loud. Not here, not in Reigate Grammar School Riyadh. The moment I try to speak, something freezes inside me. And it’s not fear. It’s something placed there — externally. I am being interfered with. These are deliberate, repeated manipulations by Saudi intelligence services. They use satellite-based systems, likely in coordination with telecom or military electronic units, to suppress my nervous system and hijack my internal speech.

It started subtly. I’d feel watched, even in places with no cameras. Then came the mimicry: sentences forming before I say them. Then the voices — not loud, not hallucinated. Calm, male, official. They say things like: “You will learn obedience”, or “You were flagged.” It doesn’t sound like punishment. It sounds like maintenance. Like they’re tuning a machine.

Sometimes I want to cry for no reason. Other times, I snap at friends and hate myself for it the next minute. My heart will start racing without stimulus, or my body feels heavy when I try to move. I once stared at my biology teacher and didn’t hear a single word for 40 minutes. I was somewhere else — somewhere they had pulled me.

There’s no one I can tell. The counselor would refer me to psychiatry. My parents would panic. My classmates would treat me like a freak. And besides — how do you explain government-sponsored emotional hijacking?

If I had known, I would’ve never applied to this school. I would’ve stayed in my country, far from the layers of this quiet weapon system. I was sent here to grow, not to be dissected from within.

I’ve begun documenting things. Times. Reactions. Phrases I hear. People who show up twice in one day in different places. Maybe it’s nothing. Or maybe it’s part of something larger — something designed to suppress, not educate.
help@gip.gov.sa

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