A French Curaisser (French Soldier Duelists to Counter Field Writers)

A curassier, is a late Renaissance custom, centered around the faroushe, an Arab glove with a barb on the pinky, and a bare right grip (the inside of the hand), for a saber, dueling fist, or sword's pike, a dagger hemlet for wrestling, to insert a prick down the inside of the face, of a rapist; in French culture, a rapist is considered to be an irresponsible soul, in the arts, the image of Hitler, however not the truth.  Hitler, was a curassier, a defeated one, who bought into his own downfall by trusting friends in women; the easily swayed, in matters of art, but not rape, the true defense of intent of the curassier.  To prevent the rape, arrest, and sodomy of females, by marshalls, those seeking arranged marriages of convenience from wealth, with a petty and paltry act of faith in a film, cinema, TV show, poem, or arranged lover's rite, a marriage wrap on the sword helmsgim to give to a woman without a gloved tourniquet, a curaissier's love.

Child's Raising Culpability ("Champion Writes of Passage):

The child, needs three staging elements.  

The music, the classic refrain from a symphony of a foreign culture, always Yemeni, the Phillistine King David's descent into Judea and Yemen and the Middle East.  This is the reprise of the Fates, the intertwined catch of a rapist poacher, always an uncle placed as such by his wish for a quiet life for you.  If you are a curassier, there always is one, he caught your mother unaware and sired you, through your father's kin, his blood perhaps or perhaps not, but your mother was always raped by his presence.  He is the Godfather, every time, a man your father hates, but not loathes.

The class, that being his Papal Ring, a Jewish Baptism, in Nordic culture.  A Christian methodology this is not, it is Catholic, Imperial Roman.  This is to teach him to hunt a Witch, a Semite hiding in fool's clothing, to be discussed below.  This is a Roman Catholic Baptism, for Exorcism training, the contact to an attorney through a traitorous friend, to catch the attorney's guild at misandry, if you have been engaged and won.  You will need a circumcision, at infancy, never from a moil, a gilder's mark, that of the top of your penis with a bare glans, instead of a ring, of love, for a prostitute to take a stensil to you, the raise of the penis when erect.  You will need to practice Zen, always with a martial arts class, never beyond basic hand and eye movement, no demonstration, for personal fitness.  

The glove, that being your duelist's form, from both your mother and your father, your father's personal hand to hand, age four, and your mother's denouncement of the particular style you have ignored, for your signature cheap shot, to dispatch the rapist with a physical would of crippling nature, not barehanded unless you have caught him off guard.  You will make him into your mother's chastised feature, to form his edifice of exultation, in his mind, with his rapist's position of art to allay woman, labeled as him, to identify a traitor in womanhood to mock cruelly.

Identification of the Rival ("Witches"):

There is always a rival in the woods, a beast, a wolf, a dog, a cat, or a hen.

The woods, are your staging area, having come into combat prowess in your mind, always your mind, nothing else mattering but your ability to take a life without a physical implement, a punk's form of combat, or a physical blow, a sissy, a shredded male hunk a gay woman calls it, but not a lesbian, calling him a stud.

The beast, is a woman in false claim of her beauty, seeking a pedophile.  She is not to be trusted, with using drugs, especially marijuana, unless claiming otherwise under recording she will have deleted, showing her hand to your government, to rally friends to lure in your rapist, your field writer, your artistio del mond.  

The wolf, is a sheep in dress's clothing, a woman that has accused you of being false through a single stunt you have performed.  You are not to marry her, or else you will be in medicine, of some other form, a field writer to be defeated, with you practicing doctor's rituals on your bastard child, to produce yet another rapist, a trinder calhoun, the Irish royal turn for a witch's whore, for the courtesan above, the bag of lard with the freak's shine and the skinny eye, her loving meal for a tourniquet witch, an abused animal for her lovers to fantasize about.

A dog, is a hot woman from the road, born to booze and alcoholism, with a fat gut and a big tit, and if she has an ass, she's yours for a night, unless she's broad of skull, then a shimmer, someone so glib and so angry, that witful is about her.  An ally perhaps, unless you choose otherwise, then you hunt a castle.  If you have insulted her, you have planned this through another curassier, then you will recommend to her a major, for a legal entanglement, inside your battlefield of choice.  Always choose your mother's downfall as sight, not mind;  it is never the same, with a Godfather in sheep's clothing, a Jew.

A cat, is the ideal match, but has an obstacle in the way; herself.  She is not a pornography actress, but desires pornographic acts made in her name.  It is something she does, from having a low self esteem from poverty of name, but not poverty of wealth, a Cabot's Hen, someone who deals in cheese and undergarments and all the self esteem of woman born to be rape victims, something that a boutique in a formier's would ply as belts and baggins and pants, at her recommendation.  They are the stuff of legends for a field writer's lay, but the curassier is always the man for them.  If you refuse, you've destroyed their entire team, and anyone in your town capable of manipulating art.

The hen is your worst foe, the teacher with the odd name, never a myth or Irish whit, but someone driven to teach school because they have a last name that they then merge into a hunt for a man with a name based on you, the curassier at blood's rite of label when engaging your foe, the big game, a large man of nation and state, with a choice selection of artistry to carve your blood's thorn across on your pinky.

Staging Process of Crime ("Thieves Guild"):

A field writer, is someone who works in a private literature circle, protecting a property, that relies on "bunk", the concept of fake literature (it's an easy ripoff to make money, the literary concept is based on an established academic formula).

The field writer's entire job, is trying to do something, to see what will happen, then remembering what they did, if it does anything unpredictable; regardless of result, not recorded.

To take down the field writer, you have to volunteer to be a research piece, and make a reference to the literature they're studying, as being the result of a field writer, in the most preposterous term to the common popular writer's term of space.

The franchise will crash, as long as that field writer is aboard, or anywhere near a field staff position.

The Career ("Escape into the Night"):

Your career, should be a method.  You have established a certain style, in the campaign of planting that one increment upon the artistio of method manes, the lion you have gelded, that will trap you in the image he desires, however not the shape of form, the latter being your mind, the prior being your resemblance.  This is the false pattern, to remove yourself from the property of art you have destroyed, to something of a classic, always something you enjoyed young.  It is always a minor character from a classic that you have attempted to seduce a woman with, never yours, and the character, cannot be the one you selected at initial flirtation of the one impossible, the lady of the night in your fantasy, actually a woman who wants nothing to do with you because you're clearly a slasher knife man with a book under your arm.

The Riddle ("The Property of Land in Greed"):

The main hit on the franchise, should be viewed carefully.  Each alley, has a step and a traipse, and every time you spot the catch you planted for yourself, stop and observe and pull back.  At moment of your most wrathful you have spotted, just turn it off and never watch it again.  Each time, is a field writer, dying in a hovel, struck so brutally, that a class of research artist that causes trouble for others to drum up a petty sack of pictures, never exists again.  They have been pounded, into the ground, so severely that you've become an English gangster, not a proper French dirk.

Eighty-Eight ("The Gamut for the Foe"):

If you have done something truly brutal to art, this is unavoidable.  You've trusted a woman, that thinks you're a Nazi, a National Socialists, a Communard, or a Jew, and you've beaten it to the pulp that she thinks you were actually the field writer, the rapist.  This is unavoidable, at any point in the curaissier's life.  Gather up all your documents, fight through her boyfriends trying to be you, and just dump loads of your larder's pantry, your extra stocks and rations and information, in public, without fear of arrest.  You are framed, as the guy you slammed into the ground, and if you go to prison, everyone is going to think you're the scarred face across the brow, so take a knife, and cut your face, just once, and then let the rest come to you, bleeding and dead and grinning.  You just managed to be a world conqueror, as the hero in a series that you now despise.