by me, Kerry Burgess, 07/25/2025 05:06 AM
If this is the first blog-post you are reading here on my blog page then you are the galactically uninformed
The mainstream-media is broadcasting on tv details that are consistent with "Lloyd Henreid" and that weirdo Bryan Kohberger
One is a subjective interpretation by me: that other guy they're still looking for in the mountains. A look-alike mistakenly appearing in Ada County, Idaho, which is also where the Kohberger trial took place.
Today, it's comments from other inmates about Kohberger
I am also trying to think up something completely random
People can stage stuff that is baffling and I am trying to think of something else that cannot be explained
Sure, anything can be explained. Does not mean it is accurate
Thirty years of the internet and I think people are actually more stupid now.
That ridiculous UAP nonsense the perfect example
The only part of it that's a phenomenon is that those stupid people are infecting the global-internetwork with their stupidity about UFOs.
Personally - with no evidence of any sort - my guess is that Bryan Kohberger was lured there to that place that night
He was caught doing something else that is worse than the crimes he was charged
I am wondering about that because of that so-called Green River Killer and the evidence I found suggests a hoax
A hoax for several reasons, one to generate credibility for that buffoon Dave Reichert, a complete imbecile.
Only after writing my comments above, did I start looking at a line of thought about Bryan Kohberger's identity
The details about 05/17/1968 appears after I started looking at the pattern in my original-work code-pattern, discovered by me for the first time only today, on a topic I have generated much content about, well before his admitted atrocities
The Stand - complete edition, by Stephen King
(from internet transcript)
excerpts, Chapter 32
Someone had left the door open between Maximum Security and the cellblock beyond it; the steel-walled length of corridor acted as a natural amplifier, blowing up the steady, monotonous hollering that had been going on all morning to monster size, making it echo and re-echo until Lloyd Henreid thought that, between the cries and the very natural fear that he felt, he would go utterly and completely bugshit.
“Mother,” the hoarse, echoing cry came. “Mootherr! ”
Lloyd was sitting crosslegged on the floor of his cell. Both of his hands were slimed with blood; he looked like a man who has drawn on a pair of red gloves. The light blue cotton shirt of his prison uniform was smeared with blood because he kept wiping his hands dry on it in order to get a better purchase. It was ten o’clock in the morning, June 29. Around seven this morning he had noticed that the front right leg of his bunk was loose, and since then he had been trying to unthread the bolts that held it to the floor and to the underside of the bedframe. He was trying to do this with only his fingers for tools, and he had actually gotten five of the six bolts. As a result his fingers now looked like a spongy mess of raw hamburger. The sixth bolt was the one that had turned out to be the bitch-kitty, but he was beginning to think he might actually get it. Beyond that, he hadn’t allowed himself to think. The only way to keep back brute panic was not to think.
“Mootherr —”
He leaped to his feet, drops of blood from his wounded, throbbing fingers splattering on the floor, and shoved his face out into the corridor as far as he could, eyes bulging furiously, hands gripping the bars.
“Shut up, cock-knocker! ” he screamed. “Shut up, ya drivin me fuckin batshit! ”
There was a long pause. Lloyd savored the silence as he had once savored a piping hot Quarter Pounder with Cheese from McD’s. Silence is golden, he had always thought that was a stupid saying, but it sure had its points.
“MOOOOTHERRRR —” The voice came drifting up at the steel throat of the holding cells again, as mournful as a foghorn.
“Jesus,” Lloyd muttered. “Holy Jesus. SHUT UP! SHUT UP! SHUT UP, YA FUCKIN DIMWIT! ”
“MOOOOOOOTHERRRRRRRRRR —”
The Stand - complete edition, by Stephen King
(from internet transcript)
excerpts, Chapter 32
Sometime after midnight he had fallen asleep, and this morning he had begun to work on the leg of his bunk. And now, looking at his bloody fingers, he thought with fresh horror about the paws of that long-ago rabbit, to whom he had meant no harm.
By one o’clock on the afternoon of June 29, he had the cotleg free. At the end the bolt had given with stupid ease and the leg had clanged to the floor of his cell and he had just looked at it, wondering what in God’s name he had wanted it for in the first place. It was about three feet long.
He took it to the front of the cell and began to hammer furiously against the blued-steel bars. “Hey!” he yelled, as the clanging bar gave off its deep, gonglike notes. “Hey, I want out! I want to get the fuck out of here, understand? Hey, goddammit, hey! ”
He stopped and listened as the echoes faded. For a moment there was total silence and then from the holding cellblock came the rapturous, hoarse answer: “Mother! Down here, Mother! I’m down here!”
“Jeeesus! ” Lloyd cried, and threw the cotleg into the corner. He had struggled for hours, practically destroyed his fingers, just so he could wake that asshole up.
He sat on his bunk, lifted the mattress, and took out a piece of rough bread. He debated adding a handful of dates, told himself he should save them, and snatched them up anyway. He ate them one by one, grimacing, saving the bread for last to take that slimy, fruity taste out of his mouth.
When he was done with this miserable excuse for a meal, he walked aimlessly to the right side of his cell. He looked down and stifled a cry of revulsion. Trask was sprawled half on his cot and half off it, and his pants legs had pulled up a little. His ankles were bare above the prison slippers they gave you to wear. A large, sleek rat was lunching up on Trask’s leg. Its repulsive pink tail was neatly coiled around its gray body.
Lloyd walked to the other corner of his own cell and picked up the cotleg. He went back and stood for a moment, wondering if the rat would see him and decide to go off where the company wasn’t quite so lively. But the rat’s back was to him, and as far as Lloyd could tell, the rat didn’t even know he was there. Lloyd measured the distance with his eye and decided the cotleg would reach admirably.
“Huh!” Lloyd grunted, and swung the leg. It squashed the rat against Trask’s leg, and Trask fell off his bunk with a stiff thump. The rat lay on its side, dazed, aspirating weakly. There were beads of blood in its whiskers. Its rear legs were moving, as if its ratty little brain was telling it to run somewhere but along the spinal cord the signals were getting all scrambled up. Lloyd hit it again and killed it.
“There you are, you cheap fuck,” Lloyd said. He put the cotleg down and wandered back to his bunk. He was hot and scared and felt like crying. He looked back over his shoulder and cried: “How do you like rat hell, you scuzzy little cocksucker?”
“Mother!” the voice cried happily in answer. “Moootherrr! ”
“Shut up! ” Lloyd screamed. “I ain’t your mother! Your mother’s in charge of blowjobs at a whorehouse in Asshole, Indiana! ”
The Stand - complete edition, by Stephen King
(from internet transcript)
excerpts, Chapter 23
Randall Flagg, the dark man, strode south on US 51, listening to the nightsounds that pressed close on both sides of this narrow road that would take him sooner or later out of Idaho and into Nevada. From Nevada he might go anywhere. From New Orleans to Nogales, from Portland, Oregon, to Portland, Maine, it was his country, and none knew or loved it better. He knew where the roads went, and he walked them at night. Now, an hour before dawn, he was somewhere between Grasmere and Riddle, west of Twin Falls, still north of the Duck Valley Reservation that spreads across two states. And wasn’t it fine?
He walked rapidly, rundown bootheels clocking against the paved surface of the road, and if car lights showed on the horizon he faded back and back, down over the soft shoulder to the high grass where the night bugs made their homes… and the car would pass him, the driver perhaps feeling a slight chill as if he had driven through an air pocket, his sleeping wife and children stirring uneasily, as if all had been touched with a bad dream at the same instant.
He walked south, south on US 51, the worn heels of his sharp-toed cowboy boots clocking on the pavement; a tall man of no age in faded, pegged jeans and a denim jacket. His pockets were stuffed with fifty different kinds of conflicting literature—pamphlets for all seasons, rhetoric for all reasons. When this man handed you a tract you took it no matter what the subject: the dangers of atomic power plants, the role played by the International Jewish Cartel in the overthrow of friendly governments, the CIA-Contra-cocaine connection, the farm workers’ unions, the Jehovah’s Witnesses (If You Can Answer These Ten Questions “Yes,” You Have Been SAVED!), the Blacks for Militant Equality, the Kode of the Klan. He had them all, and more, too. There was a button on each breast of his denim jacket. On the right, a yellow smile-face. On the left, a pig wearing a policeman’s cap. The legend was written beneath in red letters which dripped to simulate blood: HOW’S YOUR PORK?
He moved on, not pausing, not slowing, but alive to the night. His eyes seemed almost frantic with the night’s possibilities. There was a Boy Scout knapsack on his back, old and battered. There was a dark hilarity in his face, and perhaps in his heart, too, you would think—and you would be right. It was the face of a hatefully happy man, a face that radiated a horrible handsome warmth, a face to make waterglasses shatter in the hands of tired truck-stop waitresses, to make small children crash their trikes into board fences and then run wailing to their mommies with stake-shaped splinters sticking out of their knees. It was a face guaranteed to make barroom arguments over batting averages turn bloody.
The Stand - complete edition, by Stephen King
(from internet transcript)
excerpts, Chapter 39
“What’s your name, soldier?”
“Lloyd Henreid.” He tried to think what to say next, but his mind was a chaotic jumble: He had been afraid when his lawyer told him he might go to the electric chair, but not this afraid. He had never been this afraid in his entire life. “It was all Poke’s idea!” he screamed. “Poke should be here, not me!”
“Look at me, Lloyd.”
“No,” Lloyd whispered. His eyes rolled wildly.
“Why not?”
“Because…”
“Go on.”
“Because I don’t think you’re real,” Lloyd whispered. “And if you are real… mister, if you’re real, you’re the devil.”
https://www.foxnews.com/live-news/bryan-kohberger-sentencing-hearing-7-23-25
Last Update July 23, 2025, 9:19 PM EDT
Kohberger spent hours video chatting daily with his mother while locked up, inmate says
A fellow inmate told investigators that Bryan Kohberger spent hours each day video chatting with his mother while in custody.
According to the interview, the inmate was watching sports during one of those calls and said “you suck” to a player on TV.
Kohberger, who overheard the comment, allegedly “immediately got up and put his face to the bars” and “aggressively asked if [the inmate] was talking about him or his mother.”
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/2022_University_of_Idaho_murders
From 10/24/1989 ( "The Stand" complete edition, by Stephen King ) To 11/21/1994 ( ) is 1854 days
1854 = 927 + 927
From 11/2/1965 ( my known birth date in Antlers, Oklahoma, USA, as Kerry Wayne Burgess ) To 5/17/1968 ( ) is 927 days
https://www.npr.org/2008/05/17/90433944/fire-sparked-push-to-end-vietnam-war
by me, Kerry Burgess, 07/25/2025 05:46 AM
This is not going to mean anything to you if you are not viewing Spokane Channel 2 CBS local live-tv news
Nicole and Brandon all this morning are at some sort of commercial business site with plant flora to interview their workers and I am not really paying much attention to the tv off to the side of my desk
Just at the moment I had established all the content of this note - above here - Brandon T. Jones starts talking about a rose plant. "Not a house plant" "Wilted"
So I had to look around for anything that seems interesting BECAUSE of what I just heard from my tv
The Stand - complete edition, by Stephen King
(from internet transcript)
excerpts, Chapter 28
It was a beautiful warm day and her father was dead.
That brought it home to her all at once and her eyes squeezed shut, as if from a blow.
At the same time her hands jerked involuntarily on the tablecloth, yanking her plate off onto the floor. It shattered like a bomb and Frannie screamed, her hands going to her cheeks, digging furrows there. The wandering, apathetic vagueness disappeared from her eyes, which were suddenly sharp and direct. It was as if she had been slapped hard or had an open bottle of ammonia waved under her nose.
You can’t keep a corpse in the house. Not in high summer.
The apathy began to creep back in, blurring the outlines of the thought. The full horror of it began to be obscured, cushioned. She began to listen for the clunk and drop of the icecubes again—
She fought it off. She got up, went to the sink, ran the cold water on full, and then splatted cupped handfuls against her cheeks, shocking her lightly perspiring skin.
She could drift away all she wanted, but first this thing had to be solved. It had to be. She couldn’t just let him lie in bed up there as June melted into July. It was too much like that Faulkner story that was in all the college anthologies. “A Rose for Emily.” The town fathers hadn’t known what that terrible smell was, but after a while it had gone away. It…it…
“No!” she cried out loud to the sunny kitchen. She began to pace, thinking about it. Her first thought was the local funeral home. But who would… would…
“Stop backing away from it!” she shouted furiously into the empty kitchen. “Who’s going to bury him?”
- by me, Kerry Wayne Burgess, posted by me: 06:02 AM Pacific-timezone USA Friday 07/25/2025
