Was a bio-warfare agent employed to murder Poet/Nobel Laureate Pablo Neruda? According to El Pais:
“We are trying to identify the DNA of this type of staphylococcus aureus. In other words, to establish if it was common at the time or in the area, or if it was manipulated. There are previous instances of this occurring in military bases where the strains were altered. But what we are looking for is difficult: if it was an altered staphylococcus, we are talking about finding out the base or the country where it might have been manipulated”
So, who was it really, concerned enough to murder Neruda who, following the Augusto Pinochet coup d’etat, would possibly have set up a legitimate Chilean government in exile? You can blame anything you like on Pinochet, and with good cause, but clearly the threat represented in Neruda was to Henry Kissinger and by proxy, Richard Nixon’s CIA.
If so, no doubt the CIA, whose fingerprints are all over the Pinochet coup d’etat overthrowing the democratically elected Allende…
“declassified records show that Nixon .. ordered maximum CIA covert operations to “prevent Allende from coming to power or unseat him””
…will somehow expect this following logic to work in a public relations exercise:
Some toilet paper is scented.
Most toilet paper is flushed.
It follows, some flushed toilet paper will smell good.
In which case the CIA’s John Brennan, as CIA directors so often must, will instruct the Department of State ‘spokespersons’ (for instance propaganda parrot Marie Harf) to exercise one more of innumerable CIA media iterations to ‘make murderous shit smell good‘
The problem for you sub-humans running the CIA is, the gods will never forgive the murder of a real poet and your chickens are going to be coming home to roost:
“Once, far back in my childhood, when I had barely learned to read, I felt an intense emotion and set down a few words, half rhymed but strange to me, different from everyday language. Overcome by a deep anxiety, something I had not experienced before, a kind of anguish and sadness, I wrote them neatly on a piece of paper. It was a poem to my mother, that is, to the one I knew, the angelic stepmother whose gentle shadow watched over my childhood. I had no way at all of judging my first composition, which I took to my parents. They were in the dining room, immersed in one of those hushed conversations that, more than a river, separate the world of children and the world of grownups. Still trembling after this first visit from the muse, I held out to them the paper with the lines of verse. My father took it absentmindedly, read it absentmindedly, and returned it to me absentmindedly, saying: “Where did you copy this from?” Then he went on talking to my mother in a lowered voice about his important and remote affairs. That, I seem to remember, was how my first poem was born, and that was how I had my first sample of irresponsible literary criticism” -Pablo Neruda