“The fact that Cooper was a fat white guy living on top of a hill in Arizona, and was being described by liberal organizations like the Anti-Defamation League of B’nni B’rith and the Southern Poverty Law Center as a right-wing militia leader, mattered not at all. If anything, it was a plus. Cooper was a former Navy military intelligence man; if he was anything. That George Bush and Bill Clinton were behind the CIA plot to move crack cocaine into the ghetto, and claiming that AIDS was a manmade virus cooked up to wipe out the African people, this was worth listen to. Why would someone from military intelligence say stuff like that if it wasn’t true?” (PALE HORSE RIDER, p.18. Italics and emphasis added.)
So was one of the early statements of veteran journalist Mark Jacobson about his mysterious and ingenious subject, Milton William (Bill) Cooper, a man steeped in legend, prescience, occultism and a hundred aspects of our modern and segmented society. Jacobson has investigated Cooper’s furiously fragmented and yet extremely expansive forecasting of all occult and esoteric things that were often deadly. That even ended with his death at his own doorstep.
(PALE HORSE RIDER: WILLIAM COOPER, THE RISE OF CONSPIRACY, AND THE FALL OF TRUST IN AMERICA, Mark Jacobson, Blue Rider Press, Penguin Random House, LLC, 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10012, 2018, 375 pages, $24.30.)
Two early, major events in Cooper’s life charted the course he was to follow. The first was his enlistment in the military, Air Force once, and the Navy in 1966, eventually working under Admiral Bernard A. Clarey, Commander in Chief of the U.S. Pacific Fleet. Working for Clarey, Cooper had a Top Secret Q Clearance on classified material. As a MCPON (master chief petty officer of the Navy), Cooper had the opportunity to look into Clarey’s secret file that began to end Cooper’s “lifelong slumber”:
“Everything about the war was in there,” says Jacobson, “the story behind the alleged attack by the Vietnamese Navy in the Gulf of Tonken, the death counts, the American dealings with the corrupt South Vietnamese government. One by one the scales dropped from Cooper’s eyes. He was not the defender of freedom he had so longed to be but, rather, cannon fodder in a huge game of Risk played by powerful puppeteers.” (p. 48)
Cooper discovered that he really was not fighting for his country that his service was “really fighting for big business,” says Jacobson, “the coming one-world government.” It was a devastating realization, says Jacobson, “the lies, the black ops, the cover-ups, the murders.”
The second major event was the loss of his right leg due to a black limousine chase and Cooper’s crashing. On a motorcycle ride on Skyline Boulevard near Berkeley Hills, Cooper was chased by a black Cadillac which caused him to crash. One of the men felt for his carotid pulse, commenting that Cooper would eventually die. Shockingly, a second crash a month later caused by the same black limo, this time, Cooper lost his severely mangled right leg. The two men then appeared at his bedside one night, they questioned to know if Cooper would finally behave, or die. Cooper lied to them, received a prosthetic leg, and headed out into the world of radio broadcasts of his Hour of the Time show and the promulgation of his best-selling book Behold a Pale Horse.
Bill Cooper’s life consisted of many such major events.
Cooper’s “multiple-military-witness sighting” from the USS Tiru in 1966 encompassed a metal craft larger than a football field fell from the clouds into the ocean by sprouting gushers of water into the air. Moments later, the huge craft came up out of the water and shot back into the clouds once again.
Jacobson quotes Bill Cooper: “There was no doubt as to what we had seen. It was a metal craft, with machinery on and around the outside of it. It appeared to have windows or lenses placed around it perimeter. It did not disturb the sub’s electrical systems nor did it affect the gyro compass. It had the shape and form of a saucer with a bowl inverted in the saucer and it was huge.”
Whatever the possession the object had on Cooper’s thoughts, it did not prevent him from seeing UFOs as an earthly government experiment and not objects from outer space: his appraisal of speeches by the late Wernher von Braun and educator John Dewy.
“The presence of UFOs from out space was one more fear tactic,” Jacobson said, “a trick to get a frightened public in line behind a one-world totalitarian government. The most infuriating aspect of the subterfuge, Cooper regretfully admitted, was that he had fallen for it.” (pp. 103-105)
The precluding UFO years before Cooper’s reneging on space ship UFOs, were filled with all kinds of UFO peculiarities and theories. There was John Lear, son of William Lear who invented the first car radio for Motorola, and the fabulous Learjet fortune. John also wrote the August 25, 1988 “John Lear Hypothesis” that the U.S. government “has been in business with little grey extraterrestrials for about 20 years.” (pp.77-89) There was Operation Majestic Twelve documents (MJ-12), p. 72. There were UFOlogists on the scene, such as Stanton Friedman, Jacques Vallee, Walt Andrus, Bill English, Norio Hayakawa, Robert Lazar, Chris Carter, William Moore, and others. Cooper shared the legendary literature of the period such as publisher Raymond A. Palmer and writer Richard Sharpe Shaver, psychologist Gustav Jung, books such as The Protocols, The Bermuda Triangle, The Autobiography of Malcolm X, Message to the Blackman, and others. Cooper was aware of major UFO cases such as the Roswell UFO crash of 1947, also the Kenneth Arnold 1947 sighting of nine UFOs, President Eisenhower’s 1954 Muroc AFB alien encounter, the Betty and Barney Hill UFO abduction in 1961, the UFO Flap over Washington, D.C in 1952, and others.
In the early years of his radio broadcasts of The Hour of the Time, Cooper had ontologically traced the origin of what he referred to as Mystery Babylon (first mentioned by John of Patmos in Revelations 17: 3-5 as “Mystery, Babylon the Great, the Mother of Harlots and Abominations of the Earth”) revealed to him as “the story of the entire human race, as seen by the Initiates and Adepts” of the hidden religion that ruled the world (p. 141).
Mystery Babylon was certainly on his mind on June 28, 2001 as he summarized his suspicions on a The Hour of the Time radio broadcast from Cooper Hill at 96 North Clearview Circle near Eager, Arizona. Cooper said some “doofus jerk-off reporter from CNN” (yes, ‘that’ CNN…SE) miraculously found Osama bin Laden “in their hideout!”
Cooper said the intelligence community was lying to us, they knew where he had been, and how the Osama bin Laden myth was, says Jacobson, “wholly owned subsidiary of the Central Intelligence Agency…there were rumors floating around the mass media that bin Laden was planning attacks on the United States and Israel, but this was just subterfuge…” Cooper saw “something terrible” in the air. That “something” happened two and a half months later on September 11, 2001.
‘Something terrible is going to happen in this country,” Jacobson quotes Bill Cooper. “And whatever is going to happen they’re going to blame on Osama bin Laden. Don’t you evenbelieve it!” Two commercial airlines flew into the Twin Towers of the World Trade Center on September 11, 2001 in a mayhem that killed 2,996 people, including 343 New York City Fire Department personnel.
Our modern-day Ezekiel, Jeremiah, Daniel prophet-totem, William Cooper also prophesied that a war would also break out about seventy-two hours following the 9/11 attack. And then he perked the tuning fork of prophecy up to a finer pitch, Jacobson quotes:
“They’re going to kill me, ladies and gentlemen. They’re going to come up here in the middle of the night, and shoot me dead, right on my doorstep.” (pp. 7-10, emphasis added)
In the plethora and maze of Cooper’s history was his fascination with Stanley Kubrick’s movie 2001: A Space Odyssey and Kubrick’s ingenious way of using double entendre, codes and symbols to speak out. The movie “was for the initiates and the adepts of the ancient religion, those who could understand the ‘symbiology’ of the ‘mystery schools,’’’ says Jacobson. “This was the story of 2001, if you knew how to read the symbiology, Cooper said. It was a retelling of the Garden of Eden story from the point of view of the Mystery Schools.” (pp. 144-145)
“Kubrick’s ingenious way of using double entendre, codes and symbols to speak out.”
The massacre of the Waco, Oklahoma Branch Davidian members on February 28, 1993 definitely tied into the matrix of Mystery Babylon:
“Again, Cooper had been right, called it from the beginning, ‘Mass Suicide’ really meant ‘Mass Murder,’” reports Jacobson. “And if anyone needed more proof that this was the next stage in a series of New World Oder shock tests as described in ‘Silent Weapons for Quiet Wars.’ (In the Waco Branch Davidian situation…SE), the FBI had brought in Lon Horiuchi, the same sniper who shot Vicki Weaver dead as she held her baby on Ruby Ridge.” (p. 224)
According to its predestined “plan,” Mystery Babylon went a step further with the bombing of the Murrah Building in Oklahoma City on April 19, 1995. And like Lee Harvey Oswald in the Jack Kennedy Assassination, there had to be a “sheep dipped” “patsy,” and that was Timothy McVeigh: Jacobson quotes Bill Cooper:
‘“Timothy McVeigh is the Lee Harvey Oswald of the American Reichstag!’ Cooper exclaimed pointing out that no real patriot could have attacked the United States of America. ‘We know who did it! You know in your heart who did it. If I have to tell you what is coming, then you’re as blind as a bat and just as stupid.’’’ (pp. 256-257)
This seems to be the same McVeigh who came unbeknownst with a friend as mystery guests (uninvited and anonymously) and visited Cooper in St. Johns, Arizona. Cooper said the two had quirky questions before leaving. They also talked about body “implants.”
THE BIG EVENT
Since the publications of his best-seller BEHOLD A PALE HORSE in 1991, Cooper had become known as somewhat of a prophet concerning the modern scene. Such visionary Shamanism on his The Hour of the Time broadcast happened on June 28, 2001 when Cooper was appraising the reality of the intelligence community knowing the location of Osama bin Laden and was attempting to blame bin Laden “upon the American mind set.” (p. 20)
Jacobson quotes Cooper: “I’m telling you to be prepared for a major attack. The target will be a large American city. Something terrible is going to happen they’re going to happen that they’re going to blame on Osama bin Laden. Don’t you even believe it.”
Two and a half months later, on September 11, 2001, that prophecy came true when two commercial airliners flew into the Twin Towers of the World Trade Center in a massacre that murdered 2,996 people including 343 New York City Fire Department personnel.
Jacobson comments and quotes Cooper: “Freedom, the most elusive of qualities, best distilled in the inspired documents of the Constitution and the Bill of Rights, had been dealt a fetal blow. ‘From now on, freedom will be whatever the law allows you to do.’” (p. 10)
“They think they can tell you anything and you’ll believe it,” Jacobson quotes Cooper; this was Mystery Babylon’s victory jamboree and their “unholy bombs-blasting-in-air-bacchanal.”
Cooper would continue to broadcast about the conspiracy from his microphone and his hilltop, and predict and analyze the various aspects of Mystery Babylon, signified in the black community in the words of Elijah Muhammad in Message to the Blackman as “none other than America…full of riches, hatred, fornication, adultery, drunkenness, murder of the innocent and idol worship.” (p.182) It was also seen in the military-style SWAT team that attacked and devastated the Weaver family on Ruby Ridge and was executed in the Waco Branch Davidian massacre, another classical case.
Cooper saw the rapid extinction and the insidious control of what had been termed “Creator-endowed unalienable rights” in our Constitution: arena after arena, segment after segment, till cooper came face to face with another ultimatum, the Internal Revenue Service.
Through the friendships Cooper created in his radio career with WWCR, WBCQ and shortwave broadcasting, Cooper grew a ring of protection, one could a ‘militia,’ many of whom were tax-protesters. It had also become a plan for Bill Cooper as well, declaring his anti-tax status in a HOTT broadcast # 28 on February 28, 1993.
“No, Cooper said, paying income tax was voluntary because the law said so,” expounds Jacobson. “It was simple as that…the phrases ‘voluntary’ and ‘may enter’ carried the significance.”
Thereafter, Cooper was under dark surveillance and his home at 96 North Clearview Circle in Eager, Arizona had become a heavily-armed fortress, the perimeters were hawkishly watched by himself and his airwave friends.
Cooper’s purview had changed over the years due to various facts that he discovered. He no longer believed UFOs, flying sauces, to be extraterrestrial, but certain lectures convinced him they were government or military inventions, often used as “ploys” in psychological warfare gimmicks on the populace. Cooper knew they existed, however, because he had heard his share of strange-object-reports while fighting on the DMZ in Vietnam (p. 69).
Cooper’s life up to this point was far from healthy and unblemished, having been diagnosed with PTSD, and the symptoms seemed evident during his angry moments. Nine wives later, stressed and challenged by the warrant for his arrest, paranoid about intruders, Annie Cooper packed up their children, Poo and Allyson, and left Cooper alone on “Cooper Hill” to fend off intruders and survive. Daughter Jessica briefly returned to Cooper but it was a short-lived relationship because the feds took Jessica aside and tried to arrange an “entrapment” of Cooper using that daughter.
“Cooper’s family was gone,” says Jacobson. “There was nothing left but the fourth tenet of his Creed, the resolve not to give in.” (p. 309)
SHOOTOUT ON COOPER HILL
Cooper had come face to face with the federal agents encroaching on him, but he always successfully avoided them. The line had been dawn in the sand however, and there was no turning back.
“So much has been lost over the years,” says Jacobson. “God remained silent in Cooper’s struggle with the Devil. The Constitution had been victimized out of sheer neglect proving once and for all time that Ben Franklin had been right when he doubted humanity’s ability to live up to the document’s intention.”
One of the many trespassers that Cooper challenged on his property was a Dr. Scott Reynolds Hamblin and his family who visited R.V. Hill (soon called Cooper’s Hill), a spot once visited in the doctor’s youth for bike riding. It was a sensitive moment when they encountered Bill Cooper on July 11, 2001 as Bill had his already heightened fear of federal agents, along with his duties as a member of Neighborhood Watch. It didn’t help at all when Cooper physically threatened the Hamblins.
Scott Hamblin, who claimed to have property himself near Cooper’s property, filed a complaint to the Apache County Sheriff’s Office. The Hamblin’s had a long ancestry of Mormon militias and a high standing in the community; things certainly weren’t going well for Bill Cooper.
A Special Representative Team was planned to capture or takedown Cooper on November 5, 2001. The “entrapment plan” was a team of men to pretend to be riotous trespassers forcing Cooper to approach them. A “decoy” band of agents hid in the back of a truck to grab and arrest Cooper.
Surprisingly, Cooper approached them in his truck rather than on foot, and Cooper shouted a warning to them:
“I’m calling the cops, I’m going to give you ten minutes to be off this property, or the cops are going to be here.”
Cooper made an attempt to swerve his truck around in the storm-swept terrain and get back to his house to make the telephone call. Commander Tafoya chased Cooper’s truck. The Sheriff’s crew followed in the UC pickup while the “Tac Van” attempted to block Cooper’s path. Sargent Charles Brown shouted warnings and aimed his M4 submachine at Cooper’s truck; Sheriff Brian Hounshell did the same with his combat AR-15. In the ruckus and mayhem, Brown jumped on the running board of Cooper’s “stepside” pickup and knocked Cooper’s hands off the steering wheel with his M4 gun, and then grabbed the gearshift. Cooper’s defense sent Brown falling on his butt. Cooper crashed into the rocky terrain forcing Cooper to run on foot for his house. Deputies Joseph Allen Goldsmith and Robert Marinez attempted to prevent Cooper from running, but, according to Jacobson, Cooper reached for his pistol and fired four defensive gunshots, one paralyzing Marinez, at which point Goldsmith kept firing his Glock .45 until Cooper fell dead, exactly as he prophesied, on his doorstep (pp. 328-332, italics and emphasis added).
Crusher, Cooper’s watchdog, chained securely to a truck, was also shot by the agents.
“Cooper saw himself as a messenger, a midnight-riding Paul Revere on the Pale Horse, warning of things to come, events that often turned out exactly as he said. He always thought that if only the sheeple would just wake up from their slumber, and listed to what he had to tell them,” says Jacobson, “the nation could be saved.” (p. 349, italics and emphasis added)
“Brent Raynes has been investigating and researching UFOs since 1967. He is the author of Visitors from Hidden Realms and the editor of Alternate Perceptions Magazine. Brent has traveled extensively across the US and into Canada interviewing numerous witnesses and researchers. He has taken a comprehensive global and historical perspective on the Ufological landscape. He has also participated in Native American rituals and ceremonies, gaining valuable insights and information from his interactions with these wisdom keepers. Brent is able to make revealing comparisons between the interrelated experiences and disciplines of parapsychology, shamanism, Jungian archetypes, and ufology.”
Brent Raynes – Paranormalist
Brent Raynes and wife.
Descriptions of UFOs seem as varied as do descriptions of the “science” that supposedly investigates them, but everything that pertains to UFOs is suddenly also in flux and question. The fifteen authors that have contributed essays in this book on the problematic situations and solutions to the aerial mystery agree strongly on one thing: New and radical changes to the modes of investigation need to come about.
“Arthur C. Clarke once wrote that any sufficiently advanced technology would be indistinguishable from magic,” says Red Pill Junkie. “Perhaps he forgot to consider how any sufficiently advanced mentality would equally be indistinguishable from madness. In the search for the other by which to gauge our own self, what we’re really hoping for is a mirror depiction of our own expectations only slightly ahead of us such that it may still be comprehensible. Yet a truly alien mind would be from our own earthly perspective, and by the definition of the word, crazy…carnivalesque hall of mirrors….” (p. 152, italics added)
Red Pill Junkie sees comparisons to the “Joker” in batman and the Dark Knight movies and other Trickster Phenomena such as Indrid Cold of the tales of the 1960s Mothman flap.
Physicist Dr. Harley Rutledge discusses the 1973 Piedmont, Missouri UFO Flap
Progressing truly into the UFO Matrix takes both guts and creativity, says Lorin Cutts: “Within the UFO and paranormal experiences, there does appear to be some kind of an external intelligence interacting with us in a variety of ways. Yet, for obvious reasons, the nonsense and Trickster elements are all too often overlooked. Certainly building any kind of literal belief system round the UFO contact experience would – to say the very least – appear hugely problematic” (p.79).
By ignoring or negating the parapsychological aspect of UFOs, large portions of science are muted as puzzle pieces. There is no doubt that the UFO Mystery is “multi-casual” and needs to be approached differently.
“Currently, the testimonies of UFO witnesses that describe corresponding high-strange and paranormal events are often ignored or met with ridicule,” says Susan Demeter – St. Clair, “from ufologists who rather not deal with the more bizarre aspects of UFO reports, and the professional skeptic organizations who are open to anything other than the Null hypothesis…in my opinion, is a big mistake.” (p. 169)
COLLECTIVE SOCIAL REALITY
The fifteen essayists “leave no stone upturned.” M.J. Banias says the problem is much larger than any physical “Silence Group.” It is deeply ideological.
“There is no secret society that has imprisoned UFO discourse; rather, it is our collective social reality, governed by the mechanisms of modern capitalist ideology, that has done so…Today, science is no longer counter-cultured, but is now the arbiter of mainstream culture, the self-proclaimed hub by which all knowledge is. Ironically, science has become what it rebelled against.” (pp. 133, 135)
Banias talks about some of the prevailing elements “distorting” amateurs that affect ufology: Corporate influence is one, and the “ideological constructs” which our present society operates under, is another.
“We have given ‘science’ a sort of anthropomorphic consciousness,” says Banias, “but science is not a literal ‘thing,’ rather, it is a collection of socially accepted ideological constructs, methods and mechanisms, financially controlled by economic and political forces…various established organizations…a wide range of agendas.” (p. 137)
Smiles Lewis suggests there is a real “ParaCryptoufology” phenomenon that exists and is seen through a Gaian consciousness, but, at the same time, is being manipulated by covert earth agencies for their own hidden purposes.
A Smiling “Indrid Cold” Haunting Cases in the 1960s
“This is the problem I have with most people who claim to have an answer to the UFO phenomenon. They pick a theory, but it only fits part of the data,” says Lewis. “That’s also why I advocate for a multi-theory interpretation of the UFO phenomenon. I don’t think there is any one explanation that accounts for all the data; in fact, many of the ideas I’m going to talk about would provide the perfect cover for such traditional extraterrestrial encounters.” (p. 110)
The end result of such an ‘alliance’ with the UFO denizens and earthly agencies could be seen in the “psychotronic mind-influencing techniques” connected to a “Cyber-biological-Planetary Poltergeist” in ways similarly to which science-fiction foresaw as a worldwide phenomenon of “earth energies” that evil minds about the globe have “hijacked by human agencies for nefarious purposes.”
“It is clear that quite a wide variety of human agencies have manipulated the superstition and myths surrounding stories of contact with non-human entities – folklore has been weaponized as a means to various ends,” says Lewis, and Lewis spreads a wide blanket of information in his essay (p. 127).
People are waiting for some kind of “disclosure” or “physical evidence” that will prove the reality of UFOs. Micah Hanks offers more definitive “categorization” of the phenomenon, adding many additions such as “experimental aircraft,” “drones,” “psychological components,” and several others.
“Obviously, science and, more importantly, the scientific method, rest at the cusp of what I seek to address in the present missive,” says Hanks. “Hence, in pointing out the adoption of a scientific ‘scientism’ amidst the modern skeptic movement is not to detract from the proper application of science by any means…perhaps more answers than we have managed to attain previously.” (p. 74)
Joshua Cutchin says that to approach the subject as to whether UFOs are nothing but nuts and bolts extraterrestrial space ships (N & B/ETH) would be a mistake:
“While plenty of cases superficially support the N & B/ETH view, its materialist foundations are shaken when confronted with the High Strangeness characteristics of a majority of UFO Close Encounters,” says Cutchin. “Alleged ‘alien’ abductees report profound synchronicities manifesting in their lives, battle poltergeist phenomenon in their homes, and occasionally encounter loved ones during their brief sojourn to the Other World.” (p. 51)
Cutchin’s astute essay pinpoints many over-looked areas, and especially how “materialistic science” is a fading science being divorced by current evidences of psychic phenomena in a growingly “brick-by-brick” paradigm. Cutchin notes multiple studies by scientists such as Rupert Sheldrake, Daryl Bem, Ian Stevenson, Pim Van Lommel, Alex Tsakiris, and a ‘slew’ of others that say a new world of “psi acceptance domino chains” will eventually rewrite the “rule book” and finally explain many UFO episodes (pp. 55-59).
Researchers, such as Lorin Cutts, go further and say that “almost everything you think you know about flying saucers is wrong.”
“We should start to study all aspects of non-standard human experience together,” says Cutts. “We can no long continue to treat the UFO phenomena as separate from other paranormal, spiritual, religious, esoteric, highly synchronistic or other currently uncategorized phenomena. Whether we utilize science or also include other methodologies and philosophies, one thing is certain: we need to stop trying to fit that UFO subject into what we want or expect it to be.” (p. 87)
Cutts blasts “current scientific understanding” as a societal “paper god” that just can’t presently confront in-coming “magical, high strangeness” and experiences that “mystify and confuse!” New pathways and new escape routes, says Cutts, are needed (pp. 89-90).
In his own personal experiences Mike Clelland sees UFOs and related phenomena as a “confusing collision of over lapping experiences, a mess of twists and turns,” as the various threads of “synchronicity spill over to the edges.”
Researchers tend to look upon the UFOs in tight, tidy visions about visiting space ships, says Clelland, but “it’s equally important to look beyond the physical clues…We are dealing with a phenomenon that can seep its way into our reality in ways that are both outlandish and profound.” (pp. 28-30).
In a distorted, vain, and miscalculated, search for “respectability” and the “perfect case,” says Greg Bishop, “we have backed ourselves into a corner” by routinely ignoring the “fields of psychology, physiology, and even the emerging discipline of information theory” which should be included (pp. 189-191).
“Can we get ourselves out of the equation to see the phenomenon for what it really is, if there is such a thing?” Adds Bishop, “If there is a non-human consciousness interacting with us, occasionally, there is probably no way to see them except in relation to us.” (p. 205)
UFO stories come to us out of every culture, says Bishop, in the symbols of “dragons, phoenixes, pearls, holy spirits, saints, giant tanks, honey-combed spider-webbed ships, glowing orbs, triangles with red lights, and football field-sized platforms that block out whole chunks of the sky.” (p. 211)
.Methods of investigation have been “haphazard,” “quite harmful,” and witness stories have exploded into “an orgy of squabbles over belief systems, and the wringing of hands over the imminence of government Disclosure.” (ibid)
There are many fundamental problems and influences that have “distorted” ufology from its beginning, says Jack Brewer, ranging from deceptive opportunists to “charlatans,” (p. 42) to “involvement in the intelligence community” (p. 39), including “the long-arm of the CIA and its UFO-related interest.” (p. 38)
“To reframe the debate, effectively, and competently, we must not only acknowledge that such dynamics are happening,” says Brewer, “but make consistent decisions to swim against the undertow and be more of the solution than the problem.”
Brewer suggests better “methods” that will allow researchers to get to the “heart” of the phenomenon: “We would be wise to drop preconceived notions to the best of our abilities.” (p. 47)
LOOK BEYOND STRUCTURES
Ryan Sprague says that now is the time for an “expansion of awareness” and move past the mentality we are dealing solely with “nuts and bolts” and “physical analysis” and seek “newly-disclosed perception” which stretches the limits of our perceptional reality.
“It may be that our established modes of logic limit us so greatly that we can’t fully comprehend the monster we created,” says Sprague. “We must ultimately face the fact that, at some point, the awareness of that monster is going to shape and mold our consciousness completely, moving forward.”
Smiles Lewis sees different “origins” of the UFO phenomena in the style of the “Controllers,” “agent provocateurs,” and governmental suspects that are fond of using “psychotronic mind control devices” in “the lens of covert-ops and deception” (pp. 121-122). MK-Ultra, Project Blue Bird, Project Monarch, Rand Projects, and others that very well have been realized in certain UFO cases such as classical episodes of The Flatwoods Monster of 1952, the Antonio Vilas Boas case of 1957, Barney and Betty Hill case of 1961, and several others of this semblance.
But a real phenomenon exists beneath the human nefariousness and shenanigans, says Lewis, and has connected somewhere along the line of activity as a “cyber-biological planetary poltergeist.” Lewis highlights The Excalibur Briefing by Thomas Bearden:
“He, too, describes the onion-like aspect of the collective unconscious or the Akashic records and this idea that we could be interacting through these phenomena,” says Lewis, “through the transpersonal channel that I’ve been trying to describe here – with various aspects of our own individual unconscious, the collective unconscious of the entire species or, as he breaks if down, to family, city, state, creed, nations, race, geographical area, species, biosphere, and the universal.” (p. 116)
Lorin Cutts points to the Yakima, Washington UFO “hot spot” as a classical case-in-point. Like so many other “hot spots,” there is a need to utilize cutting-edge technology such as super-high resolution cameras. But Cutts suggest the bigger mystery would be to “measure” the human experience with emphasis on the interaction with the subconscious mind (p. 87).
When Joshua Cutchin speaks on such “elements,” he is reminded of magician Aleister Crowley’s 1918 summation of an entity called “Lam,” a typical Grey alien, asking us to “move beyond materialism” towards a “non-dogmatic Gnosticism.”
Aleister Crowley’s Depiction of “Lam”
“…the materialist paradigm will fall apart given time,” says Cutchin, “and consciousness studies are the proverbial star…” (pp. 61-62)
Sunday, March 10, 2013 was Mike Clelland’s “Confirmation Event.” When returning from a UFO conference, Clelland and a friend decided to camp along the Utah roadside. Later, he awoke to see a giant round structure on top of a nearby hill that appeared to have a ring of lights around it. He observed it about an hour, assuming it was a large home.
Clelland went back to that exact spot where the “home” should have existed: nothing was there. Clelland did find that three unusual or paranormal events fell along a 231- mile-long-straight line, including a ‘point’ where one of the events had previously occurred outside of Dolores, Colorado in the Spring of 2010, reminiscent of Aime Michel’s Flying Saucers and the Straight Line Mystery.
“Synchronicities, more psychic flashes, number sequences, and coyotes,” says Clelland, “all play a part in this frenetic narrative…it’s not just one isolated event; it’s a lot of them…” (pp. 20-21)
Robert Brandstetter recounts a UFO experience in 1977 that happened to him and a friend outside an ice rink in Northern Ontario. “…two classic illuminated and seemingly metallic ships descend…” within the distance of telephone pole height. Multi-colored lights were around the perimeter. They were completely silent. One object went back to join its partner UFO after passing over a neighborhood house; there were many witnesses. The two objects ascended at an incredible speed and faded into the stars (pp. 222-223).
Brandstetter claims several extraordinary experiences; one such happening was in 2005 when he observed an object in the sky while he was meditating while walking in the woods, the environment seemed to change about him, “transforming the woods into a surreal aquatic phantasmagoria” resulting in the meeting of a “strange woman.”
Greg Bishop relates four UFO incidents that do not match comfortably “into a standard narrative.” One case involved Jerry Townsend of Long Prairie, Minnesota which on October 23, 1965 sighted a 40-foot “rocket” standing on three ‘fins’ in the middle of the road. Three small figures that looked like “beer cans on two legs” waddled over to him and balanced themselves on a third leg. They soon disappeared back into the “rocket” which then took off with a “humming” sound, disappearing in the sky.
The more “traditional stances” to the UFO question (at least those who seem to hold tinges of old-fashioned skepticism) can be seen in the essays of Curt Collins and Chris Rutkowski. Rutkowski believes that “proper science” is being contaminated by overbearing “UFO zealots” who distort the field and are actually a fantastical “religion” that needs to be ‘negated’ to a separate track of inquiry and apart all together (p. 15).
Curt Collins examines the November 2013 Roswell Slides case of a purported body of a photographed, retrieved small alien. A Roswell Slides Research Group was formed and it was composed of numerous skeptics, cynics, even debunkers and some other professional people who diligently investigated the slides as a Task Force, eventually discovering the photos to be an earthly mummified body of a two-year-old boy (pp. 106-108).
Rutkowski denotes the need for finding hard, cold facts; Collins stresses this also along with good ‘teamwork.’ The conundrum, however, is: What if this does not encompass ‘all’ the evidence and information, and what if it is guided by faulty, fundamental logic and methods that are not attached to the ‘latest’ philosophy and reason?
Greg Bishop says there are other ways to look at this. “We labor under this heavy legacy, but it does not have to be so,” says Bishop. “A conscious effort should be made not to assign any origin or meaning to these encounters, because we may have been fooling ourselves for so long about what they are that we have backed ourselves into a corner.”
The fields of psychology, physiology, and also “information theory,” even Pyrrhonism, are needed (pp. 191-192).
Ryan Sprague concludes that “new paths” depend on up-coming UFOlogists. Despite their scientific grounding or their metaphysical knowledge, they must give us their time, knowledge, and resources to live with a “foot in each camp.”
“We must look beyond the structures we’ve helped create,” Sprague stresses again, “and bring life to a monster we want neither to destroy nor resurrect ever again. We must let it live on its own terms and in its own image.” (p.187)
“Jacques Vallée, one of the first to research the covert manipulation of the UFO scenario by official agencies, concluded: ‘someone is going to an awful lot of trouble to convince the world that we are threatened by beings from outer space.’ But how does this fit in with his Magonian hypothesis? Vallée presented his most explicit statement of the big picture in the story-line of his 1996 novel Fastwalker (written with Tracy Tormé): a powerful group of human conspirators know that the UFO phenomenon is created by entities from a parallel world, but they aim to convince world leaders and the global population of the existence of ‘aliens’ – and then position themselves as the world’s go-betweens.
“Which is basically our own view of the case of the Council of Nine: they have the stamp of the Ultraterrestrial all over them – clowns, conmen and cosmic jokers – but there is also the pernicious presence of very human agencies lurking in the background. The joke is on all those who follow the Ultraterrestrials, however they choose to manifest themselves or however their human allies choose to present them to us. But, as history has shown, it may be no laughing matter.”
“Coming March 10 to The Paracast (www.theparacast.com): Gene and Randall are joined by long-time paranormal researcher Stephen Erdmann, someone who has active in these fields since the 1960s. He brings along a lifetime of studies of our strange world with a major focus on UFOs and possible conspiracy theories. In some respects, it’s a “blast from the past,” as Stephen explores older cases and provides informed commentaries on the state of UFO research, and the possible meaning behind such events. He has also taken a special interest in possible government surveillance of individuals involved in UFO research, and alleged ongoing efforts to observe and control the populace.”
March 10, 2019 — Stephen Erdmann
Gene and Randall are joined by long-time paranormal researcher Stephen Erdmann, someone who has active in these fields since the 1960s. He brings along a lifetime of studies of our strange world with a major focus on UFOs and possible conspiracy theories. In some respects, it’s a “blast from the past,” as Stephen explores older cases and provides informed commentaries on the state of UFO research, and the possible meaning behind such events. He has also taken a special interest in possible government surveillance of individuals involved in UFO research, and alleged ongoing efforts to observe and control the populace.
“Through various agents, such as Catharine Austin Fitts and Wired Magazine, thousands of individual witnesses, and other sources, Hall has come to discover different aspects of this clandestine and illegal activity: digital transfers, experimental electromagnetic control methods using ‘ELF waves, microwave technology (such as microwave ‘guns,’ heart-attack ‘guns’: he saw Bob Fletcher’s shoulder blasted apart), Jim Jones connection to the CIA, Sonic nausea-tors, millimatter wave weapon (he has seen bodies dehydrated and shrunk to nothing), Zombie-guns, satellite microwave weapons, solar-powered ‘blimps’ housing this technology, LRAD acoustic weapons, miniaturized spy drones, Nano-implants, Mind Control, V2K (Voice to Skull), MK Ultra, Ionizing Radiation, Energy Directed Weapons, Gang Stalking, Psychic Warfare, Mass Entrainment, Light/Sound Programmable Media, Sexualized Hypnosis, Hypnotic Suggestion, Mass Hypnosis, and Satellite ‘Death Ray’ type beams to name a few out of so many other technologies, designed, not for just catching spies, but, in the words of Hall, for ‘control’ of the general populace.'”
“It Floated Down Like Kleenex…Many people handled the strange metallic-appearing debris that littered Mac Brazel’s ranch after the crash of the spacecraft. They were all astonished at the bizarre qualities of the small samples they managed to get their hands on. Major Jesse Marcel said ‘[There were] many bits of metallic foil that looked like, but was not, aluminum, for no matter how often one crumpled it, it regained its original shape. Besides that, they were indestructible, even with a sledgehammer.’ William Brazel Jr. (son of Mac Brazel) said, ‘The odd thing about this foil was that you could wrinkle it and lay it back down and it immediately resumed its original shape. It was quite pliable, yet you couldn’t crease or bend it like ordinary metal. It was almost more like a plastic of some sort except that it was definitely metallic in nature. I don’t know what it was, but I do know that Dad once said that the Army had told him that they had definitely established it wasn’t anything made by us.’ Don Burleson (Roswell researcher) said, ‘Brazel set the object up at the base of a pinyon tree and suggested that they fire at it—which they did—with 30.06 deer rifles from a distance of about thirty feet, an easy target for experienced deer hunters. Mr. Croft (Phillip Croft, hunting companion of Mac Brazel) said that when the foil was hit, it spun a considerable distance up in the air and came floating down ‘like Kleenex.’ Upon examining the material, the men found that it showed no effects from having been hit—not even a dent, and certainly no tears or punctures.’ The Battelle ‘Second Progress Report’ to Wright-Patterson is basically a review of Battelle’s effort to develop just such a metal as was reported by the Roswell witnesses. Although there is no direct reference to the Roswell crash in the Report, there are so many personnel links and clues to ongoing UFO research at Battelle that there can be very little doubt that the document was a report on a contract with the AAF to duplicate the metal found at Roswell.”
“A report that bluntly and openly states ‘this is material that was recovered at Roswell’ will never be found. It is only through carefully reviewing the ‘history of science’ many decades later that these connections about the Roswell metal’s history would be made. Only obscure footnotes found buried in military studies – coupled with sleuth work – would lead to the truth about the study of the Roswell metal.
“It now appears that much of the work on the Roswell debris was skillfully and conveniently ‘folded into’ military contracted work on ‘traditional’ aeronautical or naval metals engineering projects of the time. It was the perfect guise. Nobody would put ‘two and two’ together that this advanced materials work – actually inspired by Roswell – was anything ‘special.’ It would be seen as just ‘part of the program.’ Selectively ‘farming out’ portions of this work assured that nobody would make any ‘connections.’ The ‘paper trail’ on the study of the material could also be confused as ‘normal military work’ that they were ‘already conducting.’
“Hynek, the former U.F.O. skeptic, eventually concluded that they were a real phenomenon in dire need of scientific attention, with hundreds of cases in the Blue Book files still unexplained. Even many of the ‘closed’ cases were resolved with ridiculous, often infuriating explanations, sometimes by Hynek himself.
“’The entire Blue Book operation was a foul-up based on the categorical premise that the incredible things reported could not possibly have any basis in fact,’ he wrote in the 1970s, when he was finally free to speak the truth.”
Quote from the above article.
“In the ensuing years, Moriarty increasingly became what is known as a ‘debunker,’ those critics that devoted their lives, as a protection against the destruction of society, to destroying modernistic and what they felt were New Age degeneracy. Wild progressed to a fairly high extreme, seeing beliefs and modern theories as often a Fabian Communist Conspiracy. Some of his ideas, I could agree with, other ideas seemed too harmful, even though the cases Wild attacked seemed just as hurtful and infuriating. I’ve heard Wild refer to citizens several times as ‘savages.’ (‘… [if the attack had] backfire effects [which] can occur if a message spends too much time on the negative case, if it is too complex, or the message is threatening.’ [en.wikipedia.org/debunkers]). Ben Pile surmised: ‘Far from seeking rationalism, skepticism is increasingly a search for authority…it indulges the same fantasies…skeptics and rationalists ought to be taking a look at their own ideas…we don’t need a police force to protect us from bad ideas. We just need better ideas.’”
“High school basketball coach Bone was no believer in UFOs — at least not before the night of February 21 when with two team managers and three of his players he was returning home along U.S. Highway 60 near Ellsinore, Mo., about 20 miles south of Piedmont. They were in poor spirits after losing a crucial tournament game by seven points and were rehashing their defeat. Suddenly Bone, who was driving, noticed a “bright shaft of light beaming down out of the sky.”
A few miles later as the car passed through the Brushy Creek area, player Randal Holmes noticed something else. “Look!” he shouted. “There’s that thing we saw back on Highway 60!” Bone pulled over to the side of the road and the six piled out.
It looked like it was about 200 yards off the road hovering over an open field,” Bone said later. (Investigators from the International UFO Bureau (IUFOB) of Oklahoma City later estimated the object probably was about 400 feet above the ground.) “it was impossible to determine the size or shape because of the darkness. Anyway, we saw four lights that looked like portholes: red, green, amber and white. We figured they were about three or four feet apart, all in a row.”
“We just stood there and watched it for about 10 minutes,” Cary Barks, another witness, added. “Then all of a sudden the lights went directly up in the air with absolutely no noise and just disappeared over a hill.
“I was continually looking at the fields which surrounded us and the sky. We were probably there a half hour or more when I noticed what I thought was a planet in the northern sky. Had that been there before? Then I realized it was moving toward us. As it approached it began to descend. It passed over the fields directly east of our position and as it passed by, the cattle in the fields began to bawl. It was a symphony of cattle, a cacophony of sound moving like falling dominoes as the object passed over the animals. It was about 500 feet east of us and about 100 feet high as silhouetted against the trees. It was the size of a mid-sized American car. The exterior glowed orange red in color and had ‘windows’ showing a yellow light from inside. There was no discernible sound.”
“Since it was first published in 1952, Jung’s concept has increasingly filtered into popular culture, having found its way into the plot lines of TV shows, works of pop-fiction like The Celestine Prophecy, and the lyrics of rock groups like The Police. In more scholarly quarters, there have been attempts to shed light on this theory through classifying various types of coincidence, scrutinizing it in terms of statistical studies, or even explaining it through quantum physics.”
“Arthur C. Clarke once wrote that any sufficiently advanced technology would be indistinguishable from magic,” says Red Pill Junkie. “Perhaps he forgot to consider how any sufficiently advanced mentality would equally be indistinguishable from madness. In the search for the other by which to gauge our own self, what we’re really hoping for is a mirror depiction of our own expectations only slightly ahead of us such that it may still be comprehensible. Yet a truly alien mind would be from our own earthly perspective, and by the definition of the word, crazy…carnivalesque hall of mirrors….” (p. 152)
“Attorneys have a specific set of rules to follow. These rules ensure that attorneys act in an ethical manner.
“In Paasman v. Paasman, a divorce filed in Superior Court in Connecticut (Case No. FST FA 14-40287), public record shows Plaintiff’s Motion for Contempt: Discovery Order, Pendente Lite. It was filed by Rebecca L. Ciota, a licensed attorney and counsel for the First Plaintiff. The motion was filed in September of 2012.
“In paragraph 17 of the Motion, Ms. Ciota alleges that Broder & Orland violated Rule 3.4 of Rules of Professional Conduct. Ms. Ciota quoted several parts of the rule including how it was unlawful to obstruct a party’s access to evidence and fail to be reasonably diligent to comply with a discovery order (remember all of those continuances asked for to produce financial documents?).”
“As I have noted, America’s deep state is something of a hybrid creature that operates along a New York to Washington axis. Where the Turks sometimes engage in unambiguous criminal activity like drug trafficking to fund themselves the Washington elite instead turns to the banksters, lobbyists and defense contractors, operating much more in the open and, ostensibly, legally. U.S. style deep state includes all the obvious parties, both public and private, who benefit from the status quo to include key players in the police and intelligence agencies, the military, the treasury and justice departments and in the judiciary. It is structured to materially reward those who play along with the charade and the glue to accomplish that comes ultimately from Wall Street. ‘Financial services’ might well be considered the epicenter of the entire process. Even though government is needed to implement desired policies, the banksters comprise the truly essential element, capable of providing genuine rewards for compliance. As corporate interests increasingly own the media, little dissent comes from the Fourth Estate as the process plays out while many of the proliferating Washington think tanks that provide deep state ‘intellectual’ credibility are similarly funded by defense contractors.”
“It reminds us of the story about the cub reporter who is sent to cover a routine meeting of the local town council. The reporter later returns to the newsroom without a story. When the editor asks why there’s no story, the reporter responds: ‘I couldn’t get to the government building because a massive train wreck blocked the street.’
“A good reporter, or at least one who isn’t hopelessly biased, would be able to see that the real story isn’t the go-nowhere Mueller investigation, but the more troubling story of abuse of power by Obama administration officials to protect Hillary Clinton and then derail the Trump presidency.”
“Later, Herrington braces himself inside his trench over-coat as he leaves the building and heads into the increasing snowflakes and wind that lash against the down-turned brim of his fedora hat. He rehearses a mental mantra to himself: ‘I only have a few more years to my retirement.’ He sees how the unkind and inclement weather ensconces itself as compared to this time last year. He recalls that last March was rather warm and ‘quiet’… the ‘quiet before the storm.’ He reflectively muses how a battle is taking place, not just of technology, but also, of the supremacy of power itself. The rules of the ‘game’ are increasingly complex and byzantine. Herrington is thinking of scientist David Bohm’s comments in a book he is reading about the ‘widespread feeling of helplessness and despair.’
On March 5th, 2021, I composed a short essay and sent it to a groups of UFO investigators. My comments were regarding the current global UFO situation and a sense of “Creeping Joe UFO Disclosure” slowly unfolding in Washington, DC. I wrote:
Subject: Huge Spheres Videoed Over Las Vegas
Thank you for the link to the Las Vegas UFO and your questions about the LV UFOs.
Here is a message with videos that I received this week from Capt. Robert Collins (USAF- Ret) related to UFOs videoed over Las Vegas sent by Steve Barrone.
A Pair of Slow-Moving White Spheres Moving East
I’m not sure if it is the same one, but I am sure that they are related to the unveiling of the US Space Force and the slow UFO Disclosure process that we’re going through, which seems aimed for July 1st through July 4th for the “Big Reveal.”
I think that these overt “fly-bys” are synched with the US Senate-driven UFO Disclosure <organized by Senator Marco Rubio last December> that is part of a long scheduled “Slow UFO Disclosure,” which may be following the pattern for revealing extraterrestrial presence in global affairs as described according the plan described by Arthur C. Clark in “Childhood’s End” wherein a 50-year long disclosure process is followed by world governments before the Alien Presence finally reveals itself.
We are now at the end of a similar multi-decade long UFO disclosure process initiated by the CIA in the mid 1960s, which is apparently approaching culmination now as we approach July 1st and slow UFO related revelations in those days following.
A most pleasant surprise ensued when I received a remarkable UFO/USO report from UFO investigator Joseph Foster, which is the subject of the following article.
UFOlogist Joseph Foster Recounts Viet Nam Era UFO/USO Sightings
In the Western Pacific
& Nike Bases in the Eastern US (1950s-1970s)
By Joseph Foster
Robert D. Morningstar
(Copyright 2021, Joseph Foster & RDM* – All Rights Reserved)
First of all, I would like to thank all for circulating these LV pictures of the spheres. There is however one thing that stands out in my mind regarding those pictures of the spheres that may or may not be of importance.
Back in 1970 while a Quartermaster in the US Coast Guard and on our way back from a deployment in Vietnam, I along with my Captain, the Officer of the Deck (OOD) and my Chief (Quartermaster) were involved with shooting “Morning Stars” (a navigational activity) that takes place about 1/2 hour before sunrise local time).
The Captain and OOD were using their Sextants and my chief and I were hacking with stop watches while the selected navigational stars were being acquired.
We were on the starboard bridge wing of the ship and on a course of approximately 080 degrees true making speed of about 15 kts. We were also about a day and a half out of Guam heading back to Honolulu (our home port). At this time we observed a large “mercury” colored, spherically shaped object closing on us from the front on a reciprocal course (heading roughly 260 degrees true) with a speed of probably 100 mph and at an altitude of between 500 and 1000′.
What I would like to highlight is that with the naked eye, the object was perfectly clear with sharply defined features (I.e., spherical shape and all sea and sky conditions perfectly reflected). Again, the object had perfect reflectivity with the upper portion showing the blue sky above with some small fluffy clouds and the bottom portion of the sphere reflecting perfectly the blue, south Pacific ocean and capturing the slight chop in the water caused by 5 knot winds. Cloud cover at the time was about 15%.
The reflectivity of the sphere was perfect, at least to the naked eye. I believe this daylight sighting was classic, unfortunately there were only 5 of us (the lookout on the flying bridge was the 5th crew member) that observed the object. Even though we had two other sightings onboard this ship while I was part of the crew, there was only one sighting that was reported “formally.” This one unfortunately was not it.
My captain was the Senior Captain (O6) in the Coast Guard at the time and my ship was one of the newest High Endurance cutters with me being part of the first crew after the pre-commissioning detail.
Unfortunately, none of us had a camera that morning so a good photographic record would not be captured. Being that we were on the starboard side of the ship (right), when the object passed us at its closest point (500 to 1000′) and it passed us to the Port Side, we did not get a perfectly clear view (because of mast, bridge and rigging, etc.) and I am sure that it would have been a photograph of epic importance (in my estimation).
My final thought however is that the pictures of the UFO spheres showed the “haziness” surrounding the objects that I believe would be some form of plasma field, perhaps associated with a propulsion system. The camera obviously was able to capture that aspect however, it is also my belief that this type of spherical craft (similar to the one we observed), when seen with the naked eye would look quite different because to the naked eye, the field surrounding such a craft might not be observed (like our sighting) than if it were captured with a camera. Perhaps this feedback may have some utility.
One day, while stationed in the Gulf of Siam, our crew was given leave to engage in recreational swimming. A shark net was deployed and the crewmen began diving off the cutter and swimming out to a raft that was deployed for the swimmers. I was on the bridge watching the swimming activities when suddenly I saw a huge submerged black object, approaching slowly (at about 2-3 knots) from the starboard side of the cutter only to disappear beneath the ship. l went to the port side with plenty of time to see the object pass at least 18 feet below the waterline of the cutter, swimmers, the shark net, and the raft.
As this USO (Unidentified Submerged Object) emerged on the other side of the cutter, I discerned that it was at least 100 feet in length and 30-40 feet in width. It showed no fins, rudder nor discernible source of propulsion. Our ship was anchored, facing the bow to the North, as the huge black object (about 1/3 the size of our ship) passed from East to West beneath the cutter and the swimmers in complete silence with no sounds of engines or any other sounds to attract attention or disturb the swimmers who did not react to its passage.
It was I then that observed the shape of a large tear-drop shaped object continue to move on and off the the East where it slowly disappeared from view.
Although we had no sharks to contend with, the following video will give the reader an idea of the situation during the recreational swimming session when this passed beneath our ship and crew.
The thought crossed my mind that it might have been a whale, but it’s tear-drop shape with no tail, no discernible undulating motion or any sign of propulsion eliminated that possibility altogether. referring to the classic Janes’ Fighting Ships, we tried to find a similar shape in known submarines of the world, but nothing even close was to be found. So the submerged object remains for me a classic USO, or Unidentified submerged Object.
Below is a video from the series MonsterQuest dealing with such recorded sightings of “sea monsters” throughout history.
In a recent email to the editor, Joe Foster wrote:
I see that you previously flew out of Brookhaven airport.
By any chance have you ever flown out of the East Hampton airport. I lived in East Hampton for several years on a local farm (my folks moved around a bit) between 1949 and 1954 or so. In 1954, my folks took myself and my young sister to a drive-in movie theater located in Bridge Hampton on the old Montauk highway. It was during a movie we were watching that we observed a rapidly zig-zagging, bright white point of light (greater in magnitude than any star).
After making 3 distinct right angle movements, it disappeared behind the movie screen. The orientation of the screen to the best of my recollection was facing in a westerly direction towards Brookhaven National Labs that was probably about 30 miles away. In your travels, have you heard of any other similar sightings on Long Island (extremely fast moving, zig-zagging objects displaying movements that would be extreme with great “G” force activity (at least in our state of physics)? Of course, a lot of the physics that are currently making the rounds these days would probably indicate much of what Jack Sarfatti has been discussing.
I just thought that I would share this with you. I did document this event. Also, in this email I have attached a couple of other slides that I have used. In order they are:
1) The rendition of the daylight sphere event when doing “Morning Stars” while in the CG. I tried to represent the object and the sky and sea conditions however, it is not perfect but it does show pretty much what we observed at the time.
2) The next is a crop circle that showed up on a farm that I lived on as a child (the crop circle showed up in 2002, my family’s sighting was in July of 1958). This is my story of “synchronicity”. In the summer of 1958, we observed our first daylight sphere that was flying lazily along what we know as the “Navy Road” (actual name is Normandy road) that is owned and used by the US Navy to move munitions to and from ships in Raritan bay and the storage facilities about 13 miles to the south (Colts Neck).
This road has been used for years to move nuclear and conventional weapons. It has also had more than its share of UFO activity including a landing about a mile or so away from the Earle pier facilities in Leonardo. ( I will share the article from the local newspaper along with a picture of a circular flattened area of swamp grass.
Nike missiles play an important role in many of these UFO related activities, here are several that bear investigation:
Nike Ajax site W-93 (Olney Derwood, MD) – UFO crash outside of launcher area (two weeks of overflights – May of 1958
Nike Ajax site NY-53 (adjacent to the Navy Road – Leonardo, NJ) blew up killing 10 men – 6 soldiers 4 civilians – May 22, 1958
My daylight sphere sighting of object flying south towards weapons storage area (Dorbrook Farm) New Jersey – July 1958
UFO Landing about a mile or so from the Earle Navy pier facility in Leonardo – 2 week period of UFO sightings and landing – July 1970
Nike Hercules site NY-56 (Fort Hancock – Sandy Hook) – the only time warheads armed for intercept in history of site – July 1970
Corroboration of my original sighting by another witness 2 miles away – UFO reported landing in swampy area of Swimming River – 1995
Crop circle (article attached) – 200 yards behind where my house was during the 1958 daylight sphere sighting – July 2002 (article)
The next event of which we spoke yesterday was the sighting that I had while shooting “Morning Stars” while onboard my ship (Coast Guard Cutter Mellon – WHEC717) while returning from a Westpac deployment to Vietnam – June 1970. Slide is a representation of what we observed as described in my original email. Picture of object was added (with Photoshop) just to give a rough idea of scale and the sky and sea conditions at the time of the sighting.
I will follow up with another email and pics for several other events that took place while in the CG.
The 1970 WESTPAC (RVN) Deployment Crew of the Coast Guard Cutter Mellon (WHEC 717) can best describe their respect for Captain Ottis H. Abney by quoting a plaque in front of the Chief of Naval Operations building in Washington D.C.
“IN EACH SHIP THERE IS ONE MAN WHO IN THE HOUR OF EMERGENCY OR PERIL AT SEA CAN TURN TO NO OTHER MAN.
THERE IS ONE WHO ALONE IS ULTIMATELY RESPONSIBLE FOR THE SAFE NAVIGATION, ENGINEERING PERFORMANCE, ACCURATE GUNFIRE AND MORALE OF HIS SHIP. HE IS THE COMMANDING OFFICER.
HE IS THE SHIP.”
The UFO Spotlight is Published & Edited
By Robert D. Morningstar
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“In spite of all the danger, in spite of all that may be, I’ll do anything for you, anything you want me to be….” In Spite Of All the Danger, the Beatles, 1958.
“People are eliminated. Honey, you don’t know how many people are just eliminated, just on the operating table alone. They just need to be disposed of. And don’t ever believe what you read in the papers. It’s all made up.” (Joe Shimon, a professional assassin and deep cover operative, speaking belatedly in life to his daughter.)
The Boxenwolf (also known as the Buxenwolf) was from Germanic lore of the Schaumberg region where a pact had been made with the Devil himself. The victim can be transmuted into a wolf with the help of a magic girdle. The girdle was said to be a device from Hell. When he takes the form of a wolf, he enjoyed persecuting people. Even though he looked like a regular wolf, he is still able to think like a human but gained “wolf powers” as well. His senses were magnified, such as smell, sight, and he was able to run incredibly fast.
Stories and legends continued as old and resilient as evil and the questioning of Power itself.
The Nazi Reich of the mid-century was an assimilation of Black Magic and these occult beliefs.
In 1923, a man known as Fritz Kappe created a terrorist group called Organization Werewolf. Their official banner looked a lot like a pirates’ old Jolly Roger – a black flag with white skull and crossbones (not to mention the semblance to Yale University’s Skull and Bones). At first, the group’s movement spread very quickly throughout Germany. Due to arrests by the Weimar government, the Werewolves never grew into an agency that caused any real threat: or so the popular conception went.
It is likely that Organization Werewolf was created in response to Adolf Hitler’s desire for Germany’s youth to be like werewolves – cruel and harsh, people that wanted to destroy humankind (history books say that Hitler was obsessed with wolves and werewolves and wanted his men to be more like them).
The name was chosen after the title of Hermann Löns’ novel, Der Wehrwolf (1910). Set in the Celle region, Lower Saxony, during the Thirty Years’ War (1618–48), the novel concerned a peasant, Harm Wulf, who, after his family is killed by marauding soldiers, organised his neighbors into a militia who hunted the soldiers mercilessly and executed any they captured, referring to themselves as Wehrwölfe. While not himself a Nazi (he died in 1914) Löns’ work was also popular with the German far right, and the Nazis reveled his work.
Werner Naumann, Goebbels’s top aide at the end of the war, sent out a noteworthy message by teletype to the Nazi Party’s regional propaganda offices in early April 1945. It called on the residual propagandists throughout Germany to devote their full efforts to building an underground resistance movement that would make Allied occupation insufferably costly. The Allies were in fact worried about the possibility of the Werewolf movement, but in the end, Germans were more than ready to have the war over and not much came of this final effort. (Werner Naumann, “Jetzt scheiden sich die Geister!” National Archives Microfilm Series T-311, roll 169, frames 1071-1074.)
Later, many historians came to believe that the German-American Bund supposedly went out of existence and that there really were no cogent groups such as Odessa after the war. There was mention of U-boats U-530 and U-977 and the 54 German U-boats that “disappeared” in a connection with a mythical Neuschwabenland. These tales were regulated to rumor and history’s junk pile. We are told that tales about the Nazi “time machine” technology – The Bell – wunderwaffe – was only a flagrant science-fiction-story.
Ironically, despite the myth’s historical actuality, mainline historians agreed to dismiss the legend and continue the disbelief down through the ages.
March 21, the celebration of the goddess Ostara, the evening of the kill shot.
The thud of a closed side entrance way to the Boxenwolf mansion denotes the young heiress’ exit. As she makes her way into the accompanying landscape of the property, a sudden hush comes over the territory, all wildlife becomes still and the wind stops as if upon command. Window light from the enormous manse intrudes upon the night while sharing the jet black darkness of many darkened rooms. The golden sheen of her long hair punctuates her passage towards the gradually rising mound several thousand feet into the property. Her swagger causes the strands to bounce sensuously from one side of her neck to the other. The nineteen-year-old’s erotic and unctuous rhythmic unveiling of her calf and leg through the slit of her gown is constant, disturbed every few seconds by her dodge over a hidden intruder-detection device. Her image recedes. As she gets closer to the mound, the sounds of night-time wildlife revive and quickly rise into a crescendo of sound. She opens a door at her destination that briefly reveals a yellow interior.
Suddenly, several feet away, a rectangular hangar door begins to slide upward. Just beyond it, posed bravely and daringly in the soft yellow-white light of the immense hangar, is a shining and suave Mercedes-Benz black limousine. It looks stark in the hygienically immaculate expanse of multiple pneumatic-operated floor platform/elevators. Their only accompaniment is the laboratory bays running around the inside periphery of the armory. The critters of the forest now sing in full force. For a brief moment, the girl stands in the breeze that is rippling her gown, exposing her youthful flesh and the sensuous curve of a pink calf of one leg. The unnaturally warm night air holds the unusual smell of mulch covering the budding flora growing beneath the earth that even these unseasonable events are also responding to her supernatural presence. Her sparkling blue eyes stare into and challenge the night. Gripped in her right hand is a mass of metal and wood. She swings the driver side door open, thrusts a rifle across the seat, and follows into the sleek interior.
“…the soft yellow-white light of the immense hangar…”
Her omniscience having performed expertly, the teenager is soon perched high above St. Louis in a selected sniper’s nest. No Rules of Engagement for her: she ‘is’ the Judge Advocate General (she must control herself from going out on these vicious safaris). What a combination, she thinks to herself, a specially designed sniper scope and her marvelous brain to dial-up the shooter solution. The target had left his office and is making his way south on Broadway Boulevard. The target stops to swiftly dispose of a paper bag containing the pulverized remains of a stealth “transient material” spy device into a curb-sewer as trash. The shooter assembles the barrel suppressor and braces her weapon with the help of an armature. Both eyes open on the scope in a mystical deer’s gaze. The jeweled and sparkling city about and below her seems to freeze in a mosaic of multi-colored design and scintillation. She zeroes in on the target’s center of mass and then adjusts the dial for the head. As she settles into her final Engagement Position, the girl begins to hum more of the Milsap tune, but this time in German: There are suspicions that lead to questions, then alibis, and then to lies. Her silky hair slides along her cheek enmeshing with the tantalizing smell, not only of the wolf pheromones of her perfumed shampoo but the unusually embedded aura of rifle lubricant and the sweet smell of her leather sniper gloves. The humming ceases. A deadly moment of dreadful silence dominates. She stops breathing for a second. She jerks the trigger to the right, adjusting for the wind, maybe even a shift in gravity.
The victim’s head becomes a gruesome mass of the bullet’s shock waves causing brain, skull bone, cerebral cortex, subcutaneous tissue, and various dermis to expand forward and upward in a red-white halo amid streamers in a mangled mess of hurt. The body lurches inches upward and forward in the direction of the blast, then drops like a wet rag.
All the technical data in sniper school, about distance, moving targets, running targets, she says to herself, becomes embedded, not just in your brain, but also in one’s arms, hands, and fingers.
However, it is nothing like the dexterity of the Magic she is about to do now in hiding her tracks; life can be stranger than old wives’ folklore tales.
Somebody here, says Milsap, which we cannot see.
March 21, late afternoon, one year later, in the current year.
Axtilgeenix: An ancient Gitxsan name meaning “he who walks leaving no tracks.”
Detective Lieutenant Wayne Harrington is afraid to answer the phone, even though he is a brave soldier of the Special Operations Unit. Every time it rings, it brings more dead-end information about a murder case in mid-St. Louis one year ago to-date. It had been hundreds of interviews, and multiple tests that had caused the case to languish in a pile of police paperwork that now confronted the detective. He is once again to review the facts and updates. Updates? The term Cold Case File didn’t do this case justice. He thought of another expression: Dead End Waste Land.
Such exasperation is not unlike the inhospitably callous city of St. Louis: To the north and east of the metropolis are the beige and chalk-white spires that race to the heavens on steel and concrete diagrid-skeletons and escalating terraces filled with heartless, arrogant, and cowering souls. The streets appear to be bare and unfriendly. Tiny black UAV micro-spy drones circle indomitably, gnat-like to and from the launch pad atop the nearby Police Department headquarters.
An expanded sky-walk from police headquarters, over Spruce Avenue to the Robert A. Young Federal Building, allows transport of homicide case files, easily moved to the recently purchased property by the Police Department: a heavily guarded conference room called the War Room. Special FBI Agent Jerold Schultz stands frozen aside the scenery, an office equipped with two desktop and several laptop computers, several telephones, a large meeting table in the center and one huge picture window from which the railroad yard below and the building line to the south could be readily viewed. Around the perimeter of the room, and on the table, are file boxes. Some of the manila folder contents are stacked haphazardly and spread across the table and several adjoining desks. The black silk suit and tie attiring the FBI detective appear to come alive when he suddenly breaks his stare to the rail-yard below.
“Okay Wayne, let’s see if I can put this all in perspective before I sign off on this review.” His silver-blonde hair and a silver-lined mustache denote his age, now a 20-year-veteran of the Federal Bureau of Investigation. He speaks with authority as a Chief Agent of the Critical Incident Response Tactical-Ops Investigator Specialist Group. He turns to look out the window again. He jiggles the coins in his front pocket. His fingers nervously tap the leather of his gun holster hidden on his belt. He abruptly slaps his gun and holster and gets back to the dreary business at hand in a final recitation of the chain of events.
“Our victim was shot on the evening of March 21 a year ago by a high-velocity-what-appeared- to-be ‘smart frangible projectile’ – possibly a hand-made bullet – that left absolutely no trace residue or hybrid materials – nothing – by a sniper several blocks away from an upper-level office in the 593-foot Metropolitan Square building, of that we are absolutely sure?”
Detective Herrington quietly flips another manila folder onto a stack on the table. He sits in a chair towards the end. He has dressed casually: no tie, dress slacks, but an extra-large plaid shirt that barely covers his stomach. Bags under his eyes denote lack of sleep and a possible kidney problem. His round and pudgy face, as his co-workers conjectured, seem to portray his kindness and his integrity.
“That’s correct: no copper, no zinc, no nickel, aluminum, antimony, no Teflon…you name it. We cooperated with several laboratories, not just the Medical Examiner’s Office here. Legal medical investigation of all tissue, blood and blood splatter, at Quantico, other laboratories for backup. Neutron-activation analysis, energy-dispersive x-ray spectrometer….it’s all there…” Herrington waves his palm over the table.
The FBI agent continues, “And we know the shot came from a certain office in the Metro Square building because of the algorithm Quantico used on the beveling and tissue dispersal direction – not to mention what was caught on neighboring security cameras?”
“Plus acoustic evidence – Boomerang equipment and hidden street-audio-recordings – blood splatter analysis – the angle of impact – all seemed to pinpoint the Metro Square building in a cone of trajectory.” (A high-end computer-aided design and model that was established.) Herrington continues, “But there was no direct evidence that anyone was in the office at the time: no pertinent fingerprints, no aerosol evidence, the forensic crews went over that office with a fine microscopic-comb. No gunfire traces, no witnesses, no security violations…we hit hard on that.” Herrington hands a manila envelope to the FBI agent. He sits again. “My back is killing me,” the detective says in a grimace of pain.
Agent Schultz turns back to face Herrington, casually reading the contents: “A clear violation of Locard’s rule: ‘Any action of an individual, and obviously the violent action constituting a crime, cannot occur without leaving a trace’.” He stares blankly at Herrington for a good minute: “But also the laws of physics.”
Special FBI Agent Jerold Schultz Analyzes the Crime Situation
.He is correct, Herrington muses to himself; a killer always takes something away from a crime scene and always adds something to it, but here the use of the word ‘always’ seemed incongruous. Oh yes, we live in an increasingly new, modern, technological age, he ponders to himself.
“Yeah, we brought in sophisticated, mobile equipment, mass spectral odor analysis, gas chromatograph-mass spectrometers, and so forth,” as part of the latest police equipment used on site. “We checked not just the one office, but all the adjoining offices, the outside ledges, and the window panes; we were practically camped out there for a week,” Herrington stands and arches his back and stretches. “We logged and interrogated every sentient being. Nothing on cameras…” Herrington stops and gives the FBI man a serious stare, as if he had just stepped out in front of a moving vehicle, his eyebrows rose for emphasis, “And how do you fire a rifle from within a closed office without damaging the window glass?”
“The shooter obviously owned the night!”
“To say the least,” Herrington agrees.
Beads of sweat creep over his forehead ridges.
Because of the increasingly bizarre nature of the crime, the Chief of the Homicide Division requested and received special funds. A massive dragnet and manhunt were instituted that very week and the downtown area was practically quarantined with a flood of special officers formed into a Task Force. Other agencies assisted on an emergency basis: The Bureau of Justice Assistance, The National Center for the Analysis of Violent Crime, and other alphabet insignia. All persons with special rifle skills were located and questioned. It was continuous. A massive job that entailed multiple grids, ground, and dog-sniffing searches, along with countless interrogations. Because Metro Square is home to many attorney suites (commonly referred to as the Lawyer Building; St. Louis had a ratio of five lawyers per 1000 citizens), the Police Department consistently received threats by attorneys for harassment and invasion of privacy. The sniper couldn’t have picked a better spot for gumming the wheels of justice..
.They utilized several criminal databases: The Criminal Justice Commission Statistical Analysis Center, the United Nations on Drugs and Crime Statistics, and others. None of the data had a direct solution to the crime; only vague suggestibility. After a briefing by the Task Force, The National Security Agency reported that surveillance satellites would not add to a solution. Spy satellites were called into use. Carnivore, Echelon, Prism, and Mainway satellites detected nothing useful. The NROL-75 spy satellite was in use over St. Louis that day: it recorded not a soul or machine that would give them a clue. The Police Department utilized micro aerial drones in St. Louis and surrounding areas, but no pertinent information as to mystery vehicles or persons. The paper bag that the security videos recorded the victim throwing into the sewer: its contents were located, at least, nothing in the Periodic Table of elements that would lead back to him – its self-destruction denoted a high level of technology.
As far as the victim’s background, police had nothing the Task Force could hang their hat on. A young, career-climbing attorney, he had made a prior arrangement to meet his girlfriend farther south of Broadway Avenue at a local grill and pub several blocks away. He was in good health. He left the office early in the evening. The Task Force traced all of his telephone and cell phone calls. All apparently were legitimate. Did he have any enemies? Well, you know, he ‘was’ a ‘lawyer.’
“We looked into his history. He was a Military Policeman in Afghanistan. It gets a little fuzzy at that point. Upon coming out of the Marines, he quickly went about supporting his career as an attorney. There was no response from the CIA as far as any intelligence connections. I’ll work on that,” says Schultz. The agent went back to observing the inbound and outbound railroad below. Shultz is shifting his glances from the outside scenery to his partner now and then, but his features in no way betray his successfully hidden, evil thoughts. Occasionally, there is the shrill frequency zing of a passing high-speed train. Mild snowflakes begin to intermingle with the smoke coming from railroad engines.
Herrington lumbers erect, arches his back and tightens his lips, “I tell ya, a few more cases like this one and I ‘will’ retire.” He runs his hand through his thinning hair, scratching his scalp for relief.
“Haven’t been well?” queries Schultz, glancing over to the detective. Beneath the silk of Schultz’s clothing are the hard, muscular swirls of a Spartan and athletic body. Herrington’s switching of his head side to side was his only reply. “Well, get me that summary – we’ll sign off on it – move the files back into storage for now, and let some other policemen use this office. Have the files shipped to my storage area in Virginia. We’ll keep an eye on it down at Quantico.” Schultz eyes the detective wryly. “You said there were some scratches on the victim’s back or some injury. Do you have the autopsy photos handy?”
“Sure, nothing’s changed on that; it was no injury, except one the victim’s nervous system created. The coroner and the examiners said it was a psychosomatic reaction…” Harrington locates and hands the folder containing the photos to the FBI man. “There it is, ‘psycho-physiological-mind-body-somatic reaction…’ caused at the time and from the trauma of the rifle shot, eh, like a pronounced rash or blushing…hydro-static shock….” (Herrington is having difficulty describing psychosomatic medicine.)
“No animal attributions? Someone says…”
“Nah, we had an expert in here looking at the photos. The marks only lasted a few hours and then went away. The expert was a carnivore biologist and behavioral ecologist, a forensic anthropologist,” Herrington tries to create a smile as his lips were contorted by his back pain, “someone joked about a wolf’s bite-marks. A joke? Someone had misspoken. It was nothing.”
The FBI man was acquainted with the photographic evidence from his previous visits, but he couldn’t resist looking at them one more time. Schultz’s gaze at the photos grew into a barely subdued look of astonishment. He recognized the vague outlines of an emblem he knew all too well. He tried not to allow his look of incredulity to betray his feelings to the other police officer. He recognized what he was looking at because he had such an emblem tattooed on his ankle in his youth. Because of his tender age at the time, all that remained was a rough vaccination-like circle from surgery that was barely visible. This evidence, however, was all too clear to Schultz, if only to him alone: it was the parallel strikes of the double sig rune – the SS bolts – the runic insignia of the schutzstaffel!
Later, Herrington braces himself inside his trench over-coat as he leaves the building and heads into the increasing snowflakes and wind that lash against the down-turned brim of his fedora hat. He rehearses a mental mantra to himself: “I only have a few more years to my retirement.” He sees how the unkind and inclement weather ensconces itself as compared to this time last year. He recalls that last March was rather warm and ‘quiet’… the ‘quiet before the storm.’ He reflectively muses how a battle is taking place, not just of technology, but also, of the supremacy of power itself. The rules of the ‘game’ are increasingly complex and byzantine. Herrington is thinking of scientist David Bohm’s comments in a book he is reading about the “widespread feeling of helplessness and despair.”
How sad and prophetic.
″He reflectively muses how a battle is taking place, not just of technology, but also, of the supremacy of power itself.”
In the following weeks, almost spasmodically, investigators of various types and ranks in the case – die. Lieutenant Wayne Herrington dies in his bed from a heart attack. The Chief of Police is killed in a car crash. The Missouri Attorney General dies in an airline crash. Myriad technicians and news reporters alike also demise. An electrical fire destroys Schultz’s files on this case along with killing two visiting detectives; other unbeknownst but related deaths dance with questions of synchronicity, obscurity, and fate. Schultz, however, seems imperious to misfortune. Individually, each death had a certain amount of rectitude that leaves the deceased with a mindset of normality, but, like a slithering blood slick that trails all the way down to Quantico, the macabre body count is disconcerting but always becomes somehow unquestioned.
The Horrid Eternal Lair:
Wolfsschlucht (Wolf’s Ravine)
“Once we have the power we will never give it up!” Heinrich Himmler, Nazi SS Leader; later, “It is our duty to take these children if we have to rob or steal them. It is our duty to take their German blood or destroy it.”
Along the forest tree line, the shining eyes of wolves glimmer from lowered heads in fear and unwitting respect for the proprietors. Despite its horrid surroundings, the true value of the property is hidden beneath an unfathomable mountain of scientific and technical espionage labyrinths concealed beyond door chimes that herald Lao Arnaud’s The Buglers’ Dream.
(A history of the realm, buried in the muck and bustle of human activity, is one of the thousands of such asylums disguised about the planet. Many are shrouded with thousands of spy, DNA Reconnoiter, Black Hat and Black Ops devices typical of the Boxenwolf Empire. The regime often chooses special names, titles, and codes of hidden mystical significance.)
The dim, barely audible voice of the late horror-actor Boris Karloff is but a creeping whisper floating in the lonesome corridors, hidden somewhere within and emitted from a classic B-movie-murder-film playing on a television in the bowels of its inner sanctum. The building’s innards are bathed in the aroma of cigar smoke from many tycoon meetings and overlaid throughout with the scent of basil and underpinnings of cannabis, myrrh and frankincense transfused all over the stony citadel. The movie is interrupted for a commercial break on drastically reduced automobile sale prices. The ad is themed by the barely-heard distant sounds coming from a boy’s television of a classic Beatles song of 1958, In Spite of All the Danger…“In spite of all that may be, I’ll do anything for you, anything you want me to be…”
A telephone is ringing. A very elderly women trudges towards the incessant sound, one foot sliding ahead of the other in effortful, somewhat painful, movements encrypted with many years of haunted memento. Her haggard features portray profound life-worn expressions of fatigue, fear, dignity, regret, concupiscence, and, yes, horror and revenge that drips from grayed wrinkled flesh. In the shadowy and ghoulishly lit house, she somehow reaches the phone. As a Great Dame, she surrounds her world with rare and extravagantly exotic archetype materials as signs of her immense and boundless authority. Her left hand, almost transparent with age, grips the pure diamond and gold wolf-head knob of an exquisite hand carved stiletto-cane resembling flowing wolf fur. With each step, the staff clangs and echoes as it hits the marble floor. Slowly picking up the receiver in quivering hands, she raises it to her aged ear. A very trembling, low, but audible, juddering woman’s voice speaks into the jeweled, computerized antique-celebrity-decorator phone that is totally secured and completely severed of contact with any normal landline system:
“Yes?” She speaks sternly with as much authority as she can muster.
The caller resides in an attorney’s office in downtown St. Louis, one of the larger buildings occupied by so many attorneys it has become known as “The Lawyer’s Building,” a citadel of power. A strong, rather youthful and confident male voice responds:
“I’ve just spent 15 minutes dickering with your security receptionist! Hello? Is Justus Watson there?”
The old woman is momentarily stunned by the scolding; it is apparent the conversation had gotten off on the wrong foot and that this rapscallion thinks he has somehow connived his way [rather, was knowingly permitted] through her security apparatus. The centenarian slowly glances back to her servant partially hidden in the darkness of the hallway. The servant nods his head as his statuesque features rise and lowers in acknowledgment.
“No. No, he is not,” she lies. Do you mean ‘Boxenwolf’? Who is this? How did you get this number?”
“It’s Bob Felding; I’m an attorney in the Office of the Chief Actuary Staff at the Social Security Administration,” he lies. “An application has been passed down to me for more intimate handling. It was only a cursory examination at the Inspector General’s Office. Ah, it seems…..Justus filled out a form improperly, we just wanted to get with him and help him correct a few things.” (Bob Felding looks astute with professionally trimmed blonde hair, wearing a classic fit pinpoint dress shirt with black oxford shoes. Bob Felding also works on occasion as a CIA Block and Chain Cutout. His Intelligence privileges allow him to use disposable and destructible special CIA voice-to-skull transmitting equipment.)
“He’s not here now; is there something I can help you with? He’s my grandson.” The word ‘grandson’ is pronounced in aristocratic slowness.
“Oh, well, he’s not supposed to write any extra comments on the form; he’s written some messages at the top…”
“Oh, oh, well, what was that?”
“He must have misunderstood some of the questions…”
“Well, he seemed confused, I guess he got off track, he wrote, among other things, that he was born on 21st of July…”
“Well?” interrupts the Baroness, her cheeks sinking inward as blood flowed away from her face in the rise of anger beginning to rise and ripple through her body. She begins to fidget, crossing her arm over her breasts and tucking her hand beneath the drooping fat of her bent arm. She frequently glances over the shoulder to see if her servant would soon be in pursuit to her side. Nevertheless, she really did not need information as to why this call existed. She twirls her lavishly jeweled ring around her thin finger. She can hear Felding’s breath signaling his exasperation.
There is an interruption and a long pause along with an elderly cough for courage. She recollects the past, where in happier times, she would have spanked Justus’s mischievous butt. Now, she knows Justus was not being particularly malicious in this matter. Her brother, Ignacious Boxenwolf, is somehow aware of this special clandestine governmental project. The Boxenwolf Intelligence corps knows the telephone call was coming well before it arrived. There was, in fact, no application sent to this man. She will play along with this suspicious person. It is not the first time ‘spies’ have hounded her. She will throw him a curve, and give her staff time to investigate…this so-called ‘stranger’ in her house.
“Oh? Really? I…I…I…don’t recall this at all. You know, you know, I don’t believe he did!”
“No, no. We get misapplications all the time. However, everything seems to be wrong here…we couldn’t find a thing, a thing at all, in our databases. It was like he didn’t exist.” (Felding releases a small giggle.)
Scuffling her feet awkwardly to show a stance of indignation and to muster a sense of protest, she grips the ivory-diamond phone, all color escaped from her hand under the pressure of her grip. Maybe she can throw the attorney off track.
“No. No. I hope not…I don’t think so…I know my grandson….there’s no indication that he contacted you… know all his friends…”
“Ma’ am, he ‘is’ an applicant…”
She is jabbing the phone closer to her ear in anger, causing the earlobes to redden.
“I don’t think so, sir! I tell you! He’s been living here for years…don’t you think his grandmother would know?”
“Well, yeah, I would think so…” The great scarcity in official records of any mention of the Boxenwolf family had previously crossed Felding’s mind, but he had no way to know that its universal eradication was due to hyperactive technology and memory dissolution. This matter will be forever seen by everyone as only a preliminary investigation. The complete history was not even revealed to him. Felding is relentless, however, as he fiddles with the settings on his hyper-technical detection device: an outgrowth of global science and DARPA experimentation.
“When would this ‘be’? How could this ‘happen’?” Her feet move back and forth in nervous little movements, barely staying in her loose but expensive slippers.
“It happens all the time.”
“In other families, maybe, sir, but I tell you, you have no applicants from our family!”
Felding continues weak, exasperated laughs. “Mistakes happen to all of us, everyone, lady; you, me, every single, breathing person!”
She gasps in shock at Felding’s brash attitude. “Are you crazy? Maybe you, young man, but I’ve handled major matters in dire situations for all my life…this has nothing to do with us, and that is that!”
(Life’s magic had often come in evil ways. For Lauren Watson – soon to be Boxenwolf – evil came as she had stood in the 1970 soil of Kenya, Africa. A youthful statue of picturesque female beauty, anchored in the best aristocratic heritage and education, muscularly sensuous with rose-ivory cheeks, exquisite ruby lips filled from healthy blood within. Her demanding blue eyes portrayed her majesty in her female safari skirt, hunting vest, tag boots and slouch hat that covered locks of brilliantly golden hair. Feet planted firmly and boldly braced for her shot, the 8 x 57 MM Mauser raised delicately, scope cradling her eye; she aimed steely at the swirling, lashing bushes. The native boy had come charging to her side, yelling frantically and pointing his finger in fear at the burly, bouncing mass of fur that became known as a shape-shifting monster of the Steytlerville region. It suddenly lurched from the thicket; “Wesens! Wesens! Bawokozi! Save us!” Without flinching, undistracted, undeterred she squeezed the trigger and a powerful, explosive crack riveted the air…the epitome of good warring against evil was suddenly lodged at the end of a rifle barrel.)
Felding pauses. He suddenly finds himself confused and at a loss for words. “I am afraid you misunderstand me, I am speaking about ‘human’ beings, lady.”
“And what do you think ‘I’ am; a courtesan from Mars? You, young people, are going to hell in a hand-basket, you think we all are part of your den of iniquity, calling here, looking for your kind, thinking no one can unravel your mischief…”
Felding leans back in his adjustable leather seat, trying to regain some casual composure.
“He sent us an application, I didn’t ask him to.”
She realizes some technological expertise had to be obtained to call in on such a hidden telephone line; an impossibility. However, Felding connotes much more to her. She knows the type: four to six years of law school and practice gives them the illusion that they deserved salaries greater than the President of the United States. They even feel they outdistance the subterfuge displayed in the Dirty Tricks Division of the Central Intelligence Agency. The legal industry is rife with them. As they speak—unfortunately for Felding—the Boxenwolf security apparatus is functioning expertly: something that even the machinery of the U.S. Special Activities Division Directorate of Science and Technology could not compare with.
“Do you know what you are doing, young man? Do you know with whom you are dealing?”
“Ma’am, I’ve dealt with all kinds of people in my profession. I’ve been a Chief Audit Executive in Senior Management of the Internal Revenue Service. I’ve had FPTE, IE, ETS, CAS work under me. I’ve organized and trained thousands in the IRS Large Business and International Division…”
“Nonsense…!” There is again an interruption to her scolding.
“…we’ve audited a 22,000 square metric factory in Saudi Arabia, and I am presently joining the Affordable Care Act – the Audit Team on the National Health Care…,” lying, he continues to probe; hoping little bits of information would come out revealing the true nature of the person he is dealing with.
The old woman’s face deflates into an ashen disgust. She knows the conversation has to take a different direction.
“Shut up, you pimple! You ant! We ‘own’ you…” Her voice holds a special quiver on the word ‘own.’
“I am highly educated, lady. I am no dummy. I’ve graduated from Yale and Harvard…” Felding has deliberately left behind all semblances to professional politeness and truth as part of his disguise.
A carnivorous smile comes upon her face. “You don’t ‘understand’, you impudent guttersnipe! We ‘own’ Yale; we ‘own’ all of them, all of them! I’ve been educated beneath countless tenured professors in our secret bases around the world. Are you a Sharpshooter? I am! I’ve traveled in time and trained in the traditions of snipers: Simo Hayha, Lieutenant Lyudmila Pavlyuchenko,” and the list of historically renown snipers and sharp-shooters begins to unravel at length, and in rapid fashion, “And I’ve personally trained with U.S. Marine sniper Carlos Hathcock on the M-25 White Feather. I am more than an Ojibwa Warrior, trained by many governments. We destroy ‘governments!”
Felding continues to gourd the old lady, despite the fantastic comments he was hearing; it was all vital information. “…not ‘the’ government, not ‘this’ government (caustic chuckle.)…it has too much ‘power.’” He continues assuasive chuckles; maybe, Felding says to himself, he could flush the story out of this old hag.
“Power?” Her voice races to a sudden peak of irresolute anger; she pauses only briefly to muster a little strength and determination in her voice. “I’ll tell you about ‘power’! (Her voice strings out the sound of that last word slowly as if punctuating it. She takes a deep breath and her causerie continues amidst a newfound strength and energy.) I have stood on many a catwalk looking down into the golden glare and searing heat of pristine melted gold poured from ladles in thousands of our gold foundries around the world. We have hundreds of Lutetium, Rhodium, and rare earth factories thousands of feet below the earth. I have sat before the scintillating canopy of hundreds of video screens in one of our Cyber Centers; tabulated visuals portraying the millions of RFID and bioresorbable spy-implant chips in our universal enterprise: charting the lives of billions of public human lives. Power? (Her face is rubescent with anger) I do not believe I ‘can’ die, but if that fate surrounds me, I have the best cryogenic laboratory and scientists standing ready to resurrect me. That’s ‘power’! I have talked with CEO’s and CFO’s in over thousands of companies and Presidents of countries. Unbeknownst to them, we own Maharashtra, Uttar Pradesh, Gujarat Energy Development, L.G. Group, Barrack Gold, Bankers Petroleum, Halliburton, SPDR Gold, Teva Pharmaceutical…,” her anger is punctuated from small blood trails as she scratches the ridges of her staff. She names companies ranging from Saudi Aramco to the Rand Corporation…
“You’re joking?” Beads of sweat are forming on Felding’s face. Seldom had he had to back down as an attorney in the courtroom, but he knows he is up against much more now than a courtroom-witness.
“I thought you were an ‘expert’ at the Internal Revenue Service? Why don’t you know?” The old woman takes advantage of a silent moment.
“There is a lot you don’t ‘know’!” (She pauses to regain her breath as a token of control.) “Justus is just not in your league, he is working to be a member of a society that you couldn’t even comprehend, and you….you….you…hiding under the disguise of ‘social security’ – there will be nothing ‘secure’ about you, sir…”
The heiress’ attention moves to the pulsating and flashing rainbow of lights on the security alert panel above the telephone podium; each color denoting a stage of security endangerment. To the far left, a button is a steady red: a denotation that a security matter must be attended to privately and personally. She has been waiting for the signal.
“Well, can you have him call me…?” Felding’s face has become a lineless mask of astonishment; a creeping assessment of the situation as critical: perhaps he did and perhaps he didn’t get the information he wanted, but he will make a safe exit now.
“He won’t be calling you, sir. The secret will be kept! Coute Que Coute!”
Lauren Boxenwolf instinctively knows that this meandering chitchat has to be ended. Once again, the Power that stalks those who challenge and threaten ‘Its’ divulgence will protect its history. She ‘could’ completely disintegrate and wipe out his identity and history with a flick of the finger. This problem, however, will be a personal ‘visit,’ and for pure sensual pleasure, a direct hunt.
She presses a buzzer in the mega-gigabyte-memory telephone console-pad. It summons her security concierge, the Boxenwolf Enterprise Guard, and Maintenance Cadre. They will bring forth from the subterranean conclave an armored, technologically seasoned vehicle, saturated with sophisticated superior weaponry, her current-model-Mercedes-Benz-Classic-Black-Bison limousine.
“I’ve always felt there was something fishy about our misappropriations for the ‘social security’… (She deliberately emphasizes the pronunciation of the words.)…So many so-called powerful organizations think they are solely in control, I’ve been watching, trulywatching...and now you have come to break my boredom, to milk my revenge…”
Her blood pressure rapidly rises–her brain is firing millions of synapse connections in passion. Visions of her past memories cascade into her mind, flooding her body with a sense of overwhelming revulsion. Throwing the wolf-head staff aside into the air, she drops the expensive silk robe off her body. Standing naked, she reaches for a young women’s elaborate and expensive slit-gown draped over the corner of her expensive leather Arm Chair.
“I’m going to hang up now.” The muscles in Felding’s stomach begin twisting and hardening.
“I know all about you! I have your number: you are ‘mine!’ Do not try to come here. I’m over 120-years-old; doesn’t mean I cannot defend myself. I have a long-range, multi-shot, sniper weapon with specially equipped Crisp, Creep-free Trigger Pull …”
A sovereign voice, some ghost off to the side and upward, is whispering. Her eyes jolt into a haunted gaze. Stunned, she slowly arches her head to look up to the invisible phantom speaking to her. Lips quivering, she moans to herself; her body beginning to shiver in an unexpected passion. She unexpectedly releases a small yellow rivulet of urine that runs down her leg; it laces onto her emerald, ruby, and diamond Javier Barrera slippers. It pools on the floor. Dazed, she looks at a rifle silhouetted from the hearth flames; it hangs with an armada of other expensive weapons near the cavernous fireplace mantle–the phone, slightly away from her mouth, she begins to barely whisper to herself in lustful sensuous tones of sexual arousal. Erotic muscles tighten and twinge as little known sexual zones release into an orgasm that suddenly racks her body…
Now dispossessed from her unseen lover, her attention is reclaimed fully to an evil task…
“…and I ‘know’ how to use it, yes, yes I do…” She has somehow glided into the dress and tightened the belt.
“Bye now. Bye…” Felding’s voice, laced with signs of fright and apprehension, becomes somewhat weak and trailing.
“You weasel, scum, sneaking around…” She looks at the Collegiate Gothic style front door with an expression that encompasses every bit of dark, malevolent energy she can muster. All her facial and body features are consumed in a voice that is a low, groveling witch’s moan…
“…a stranger, no more!”
As if a wisp of smoke creeping unpredictably through the palace, the muffled, distressing monotone of an announcer to a slash-horror movie trailer can almost be heard from the distant television program in one of the far dens: “Run, if you must. Hide, if you are able. Scream, if you can…but whatever you do, don’t answer the phone.”
Life’s magic had often come in evil ways. For Lauren Watson – soon to be Boxenwolf – evil came as she had stood in the 1970 soil of Kenya, Africa. A youthful statue of picturesque female beauty, anchored in the best aristocratic heritage and education.”
“Milsap didn’t write his own songs, but he was a master at choosing them. He said that he and a friend, iconic producer Rob Galbraith, started their own publishing company. One of their favorite writers was Mike Reid, a former professional football player who would go on to have his own successful solo career.
“I’d sit and talk with Mike,” Milsap said. “He’d ask me, what kind of song do you want? I told him, I’m out on the road and the truckers always want to know when am I going to sing something about them.
“About a year later, he came back to me with ‘Prisoner of the Highway.’ When he played me ‘Stranger in My House,’ I told him, ‘You know I’m going to record that one.’”
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He was like a bomb about to explode! His fist drew blood in the scratches he inflicted upon himself as he punched the bark on the oak tree. He had tried for three weeks to seduce Mary Jane Williams in any number of ways, and each time something had stood between him and his goal. Either Jack Sampson wouldn’t loan him his car to keep a date with her, or his mom and dad had ‘cracked down’ that night and didn’t want him meandering into those darkened, devilish areas of the city; he dreaded another brawl. Besides, everyone knew she was an easy ‘make.’ A pretty one, but an easy one.
And now he had an oil stain on his shirt from an unfinished burglary attempt at ‘hot wiring’ an old car down the street. Even though he had wrapped his jacket over the smudge, and zipped it shut, you could smell the heavy odor of oil. Some dirt had caked into the grooves of his fingers, and he was unaware that a streak of it was across his chin. He wished he could have gone home, but he was locked out of the darkened duplex which appeared to him as a foreboding evil and sick. He needed to be in a nice warm bed—he needed someone to talk to—some friend. As he analyzed that feeing, he became unconsciously ware of his next destination, somewhere along the river where its hourly chimes would echo across the lower-income neighborhood.
The traffic bothered him, and he had stepped-back three times at the demands of angry motorists who honked at him impatiently. “What a cruddy-looking kid,” shouted one girl from the backseat of the last auto to pass by. She rocked back into the seat as a bundle of laughter. Bud Hendricks made his way at a frantic pace across the street, glancing back on the passing hulks of metal, he spit on the street in contempt. He looked over his shoulder, up Vermont Avenue to the confectionery two blocks north. The Pepsi sign outside was waving in the chill wind. It would lap against the wind, then hang somber. After a moment, it would lap again.
He’d go there and play the pinball machine and think—think as to whether he should knock on that solid oak door with a small stained-glass window in the center: a radiant picture of the Good Shepard. Then a gentle swing its pewter-like hinges, the doorway would be graced by the slim shadowy form of an older priest, who was no comparison for the younger priest, Father Raymond Herbert. Bud recalled his last discussion with Father Herbert:
“I’d like for you to keep coming back, dig man?” asked the young priest. Father Herbert kept talking, flipping his almost shoulder-length hair behind him. Bud had heard about some of the liberal innovations the younger priests were bring about in the Catholic Church, especially since the most recent Vatican Council. But seeing them in person was a little more startling.
“Like, we have made quite a few changes, dig? And I don’t think you understand what is in store for you? Right?” The priest was bouncing around before the boy, looking much like one of his wisecracking exuberant boyfriends. It made Bud feel comfortable, familiar, identifiable with the priest; yet, at the same time, he felt a sight revulsion, a disgust at these theological innovators.
“Like, you know, new things are happening. The Holy Spirit promised to lead into all truth! Well, man, it’s happening—-it’s today—-it’s the New Creation! You’re part of it, cat! Dig? The Church is not against you. Why not split to my office now and then, we’ll have a little discussion? I don’t know if I can talk to you every time you come—-Father Eugene O’Brien usually handles the Religious Study, but don’t split the scene. Keep coming.”
He did keep coming back. He returned. Bud was split between exhilaration , and, yet, a form of disillusionment.
The boy was still sipping on the Pepsi when he walked away from the pinball machine in the corner of Pat’s confectionary. He paced back and forth by the glass window—-restless, wearily, like a lion in a stinking cage, but only more discouraged. His freshly washed hair shone in the store’s ceiling light highlighted by a recent palmful of Brylcream. He hiked one leg, put it down, then placed the other up on the store window counter. From there he could see the girls coming home from school, carrying their books close to their sweaters, brazenly flaunting the rear ends from the hem of the miniskirts.
“The bitches, how do they keep their asses from freezing?” Bud mumbled to himself in a low growl.
The trees outside bent and bowed in the wind. His soda dribbled down his chin as he set the empty bottle with a thud on the counter. He smeared the auto oil streak away from his chin with the soda drippings. A bunch of teenagers, gruff, disheveled, shaggy, bustled through the door. The bell above the door rang tinnily and was drowned out by the kids.
“Praise the Lord, praise the Lord Almighty!” sang one teenager demanding change from the cashier to play the pinball machines.
“Sing man, sing! What did Father Hubert give you in Science, Dan?” another asked from the midst of the confectionary.
“B? B-plus? I don’t know. Should have been an A,” the other boy cracked back. “Hey, give me those nickels!”
The bundle of flesh and noise had finally moved over to the pinball machine carrying their customary confections and soda. They took their usual vulgar stances intermingled with the traditional “go to hells’’ and other “ah go screw yourselves”-type obscenities. Later they would settle down to their nightly routine of doing their schoolwork—-provided they felt like doing it.
Though a high school drop-out himself, Bud could feel nothing but contempt for the parochial school kids. “So, you are the Light of the World?” he thought to himself as he casually lit a cigarette. It was a term derived from his talks with Father O’Brien. Too many talks, Bud protested to himself, but it was getting to be a habit for strange reasons. It was about to be fulfilled again tonight.
Bud forced his way outside in a brisk manner. There, he took two robust puffs on the cigarette. He threw it down and crushed it lifeless. He walked swiftly to the street corner. Bud noted it was about to rain, placing him in a somewhat somber mood.
“What about those rumors telling of the Communists and their takeover?” Bud had asked the shaggy-headed Father Herbert during one visit. “Wasn’t there something said about an avowed ‘psychological infiltrations’ starting way back with Lenin?”
“Bunk!” the flippant priest jested back. “Christ hid the purpose of the New Creation until after his death, and now the Holy Spirit has that Church into ‘all truth.’ Communism is not an enemy but a phase, a necessary transition to the ultimate conquest by Christ of the universe. Even democracy.’’ The priest smiled mysteriously.
“Yah, but didn’t consecutive Soviet leaders avow Lenin’s same purpose to ‘debauch us from within?’” Bud brought the question up during one visit. “Wasn’t there something about an avowed ‘psychological infiltration’ starting way back in history with Lenin?’’ Still, they sometimes barred rock music and censored dirty movies and such in their naïve country, Khrushchev said that he would ‘bury us,’ meaning….
“So,” Father Herbert countered, “America has room for Communism, rock music, liberal movies—-those are very charitable acts. Christian acts, dig? Like, Christ said His Father’s house had many mansions….’’ The priest smiled with an Alice in Wonderland’s Cheshire Cat expression.
“Sounds a little strange. But, yah, it could mean that,” exciting visions and scenic sights burst in the boy’s head. “But Father O’Brien disagrees. He feels that the Anti-Christ is personified…’’
“Father O’Brien!” The priest suddenly became solemn, a barely subdued sneer upon his lips. “Father O’Brien,’’ he continued more softly, “will have to learn of the evolving trend of the New Creation, as will everybody else!”
On Shara Avenue, Bud noticed one unusual house in the middle of the block. In its small front yard was a solitary flagpole with an eagle with outspread wings atop the pole. The front porch desperately needed painting and strips of the old paint lay on the ground. There was a light within the house and a certain melancholy atmosphere hung over the structure. Who lived in the house? An elderly couple? When was the house built? Before the Second World War—-earlier, when? Bud identified closely with the house. He wondered how little houses—-little people—-could survive in this big town, this big nation, this big world.
And then he noticed many things around him. Maybe it was the damp, dark weather that was requesting persons and things to silently ask humanity to cuddle, examine and befriend the scenery: there was the yellow crabgrass that sprouted out from the edges and creases of the sidewalk, how many years ago could it have been when they made sidewalks out of red brick laid in a cris-cross pattern? The gas station on the next corner had an ancient-looking building next to it; its chimneys were bent, broken and ready to fall; the windows were boarded; rubber ties; automobile oil pans and general litter lay in the front yard. Sixty, eighty, or a hundred years old? How old was the building?
The flashing beacon on top of the filling station that Bud’s vision encapsulated seemed to recede to a dot between revolutions. It reminded him of the little white dot that appeared at first when the television is turned on and a picture appears an instant later.
(“Tingle Soap,” the broadcaster in the television commercial had been saying, “will give you that magical feeling from head to foot, as if a beautiful Polynesian maiden had caressed you.” A teenage boy in a bathtub was wiggling his toes at one end of the tub as he exhibits a broad grin. “Tingling,” the broadcaster continues, “like the new dawn freshness of a beautiful south sea day.” Off comes a bosom halter from the maiden. The boy’s toes wiggle fanatically, and the boy’s smile turns into a lusty grin. “Tingling,” the broadcaster continues, “like a boy rejuvenated by the desire of a South sea goddess.” The boy appears to be erotically aroused. The girl in the commercial laughs exhilaratingly—-off comes her skirt. “And now, back to our movie feature THE BONTUS: THE FLESH EASTING SEA FIEND.)
In two more blocks, Bud would turn down a side street heavily pockmarked with cracks in the hard topped street. The city needed to repair it but it probably would remain dilapidated for a year or more. From where Bud stood, Bud would be able to see the stately lawn to the priest’s parish house and its plush evergreens along the small white and spotless walkway to the noble redbrick building.
The setting Sun, an enormous orb looming from beyond the buildings and homes to his back, had thrown a golden hue on everything. The dark clouds of the late autumn afternoon had dissipated briefly as if to allow the Sun to give a final goodnight salute. Bud turned the corner towards the priest’s house, and the two-story vacant house diagonally across the street seemed aflame with the golden red rays of the setting Sun and the multiple windows defiantly reflecting that source.
When Bud reached the lawn of the vacant house his eyes rolled in anxiety as he examined the scene. He glanced back and forth across the street, up and down the extent of the building and the church on the conner, then back to the vacant house with its first-floor windows overlayed by strips of plywood nailed diagonally across them. The thick front door was boarded shut with two big boards. The shrubberies were unkempt with long reeds thrusting through them, the concrete steps were chipped and crumbled. The lawn was bare in spots with stubs of crab grass spread about. Bud felt just as emotionally desolate.
Bud stood there momentarily, shivering, undetermined. Suddenly, another youngster came shuffling along the street out of a nearby alley. He barely noticed Bud standing there and was snapping his fingers to the latest Hit Tune, a melody which could be heard coming from the bulge of a small radio in the boy’s hip pocket. The strolling youngster’s hair had been combed high onto his head and the nape in a Duck-Butt fashion. His shirt was a plaid design of red and black, barely discernable beneath a leather jacket—a jacket much like the one Bud wore, but much more soiled and torn. The strolling-youngster’s face was strained and enveloped in pleasure to the tune he was hearing.
Bud watched the boy disappear around the corner as the boy’s feet made a horrid sound of something dead being pulled across a concrete lot: it was the boy’s black boots being dredged along the pavement.
Bud spat on the street, then drew his eyes back onto the priest’s house. Bud lazily climbed the lawn to the front porch of the vacant house. When he sat down, the streetlights flickered on and he noticed several homes already appeared well-lit in the dusk of the evening. The rectory windows added their radiance to the scene. Bud suddenly realize the time as the church bell chimed the hour. A tugboat on the river gave a low moan adding to the melancholy.
“Why do I want to waste my time looking about a small Catholic rectory?” Bud questioned. He would have been at Louie’s house right now, Bud told himself, planning an evening at Betty Breg’s place. Her parents were never home and there was always a refrigerator full of food—-and a whole evening for ‘games.’ Bud liked Betty. She was a real swinger. He thought he could ‘make’ her if he really tried. That is if Louie didn’t run interference.
Maybe Louis wasn’t even home now. He never seemed to be home much lately. Often, he and Louie would end-up to be sitting in that two-room shack that Louie called home, staring into the pot-bellied stove for hours on end, talking about cars and sex, and then, sex and cars. What he needed was Jack Sampson and his car. That would make things right, Bud rationalized. If only Jack could suddenly materialize and help rid him of this insufferable ache of loneliness. “I need to screw Mary Jane, damn it,” Bud told himself; Bud knew where Jack was tonight, and it wasn’t playing guitar out at Hartsville like Jack’s sister said, it was more like Mary Jane than Hartsville. He had to fill this hole of loneliness, this stabbing in his heart caused by many drunken fights of his mother and stepdad, the screaming threats, banging of human bodies against hardwood floors, the smashing of beer bottle glass, and the guggling of someone’s fist on a human throat. Bud couldn’t recognize the teenage elements of fear, the deep shame of his acne, the puzzle-pieces of the love-hate relationship his mother carried within her ( probably going back many generations to hear her tell of her own family discipline episodes), and general childhood angst living in their lower-class scenery.
But above all this, Bud wanted to believe his mother deeply loved him.
“It’s not that you’re so shy, Bud,’’ his mother had told him one night, “you’re simply different from your friends. You like to read, for instance. You don’t particularly like to get your nose into hard dirty work like your pals—-you are just more serious about mystical things than they are. But why do you get involved with such punks?”
Bud couldn’t reveal his feelings of the terror and longing he carried like a bundle or bricks on his back or the slab of concrete in his stomach. Instead, he euphemistically tried to state it more commonly: “I want to be just another happy guy, Mom! Doesn’t a guy have a right to have fun?”
Bud wanted to tell her that he had to make ‘the scene’ the same as his buddies; they were natural at the art of seduction; but how does a guy tell that to his mother?
“But you have good friends. Go back to Church. You went to Sunday School once before, Bud…’’
“Mom, you don’t see the ‘picture’…’’
“Mom…” How could the boy explain? Explain that the world was not what she said it was. That a whole jungle of insects and bugs and green slimy things grow out in the world that aren’t even listed in her encyclopedia of facts—-or, perhaps the worst possibility: she wasn’t telling all the facts!
The sky had become dark. The Moon was partially hidden behind passing bundles of grey-white clouds. The trees swayed in the autumnbreeze, and Bud noticed that in his ongoing anxiety he had knotted his protruding shirt cuff into a winkled ball. “Ah, the loneliness, the infernal loneliness, the gnawing loneliness!’’ I’ll go home, he thought at first. No, no. Try Jack’s place again? Nope, he wouldn’t be home, and besides Bud couldn’t stand his old lady coming to the bar smelling of Hill and Hill whiskey and eyeing Bud seductively. Anyway, Jack’s got a dog that barks worse than a herd of hyenas. And then Bud felt growing rage. He needed to expose his soul, he screamed in his thoughts, waving his hands about as if a lecturer, a rather pitiful sight as he stood on the steps of the deserted property. He was now acting-out his frustration—-not just looking at bodies on the covers of magazines (hurriedly hidden beneath a stack of shoes), and the pornography inside, or the faces of cute girls……he meant OUT!
His eyes had developed an intensity of rebellion as he glared over to the rectory door.
“Who do you think you are fooling, Father O’Brian? I’ve read my Bible. Can you prove any of it? Isn’t just more of this gobbledygook – those myths mankind and the Church have been handing out?’’ His thoughts were bold and direct.
The ornate rectory stood mute before his silent charge. The moan from the tugboat whistle from the muddy waters of the river gave another nocturnal sigh. Bud could smell that opaque odor of the muddy river—-so much soft dripping dirt, so many trunks and limbs of trees protruding the water as if thorns on some submerged victim: It was also the smell of so much urination and human waste from the city drainage; so much green foliage; and just so much dank mud that could have been likened to as the smell of the blood of civilization’s torn flesh.
From somewhere he could smell the heavy stink of sickening garbage from some alley nearby, of which he directed his thoughts to other memories in an act of avoidance.
Bud shoved himself erect. In his lingering frustration he kicked bits of gravel aside with his shoe (noting the rents alongside of the high- heeled boots). In lessened anger he glanced over at the rectory door as he skipped down the steps of the old house:
“Okay, O’Brien, okay. At least it’s warm inside your little office,’’ Bud was thinking, “if you’ll have me; yah, if anybody will have me.”
Bud was greeted at the door by the elderly housekeeper. She was wiping her hands on her apron. “Yes?” she asked in a quivering voice.
“Ah, Father O’Brien here?” Bud asked politely but nervously. The old woman recognized Bud from a previous visit and eyed him curiously.
“Just a minute please.” She hobbled off into a well-lit backroom. Bud was thinking to himself: “Why do places like this always seem to cater to older people?” Bud was leaning on the doorway, and visions of the fictional Hunchback of Notre Dame came to mind as the classic Hunchback crawled amongst those medieval spires and steeples; places like this seem to attract the old and downtrodden and emetic; but then, what did he expect: movie actresses like the late Elizabeth Taylor?
Within the hallway a dark shadow appeared at the bottom of a stairway; soon the light from an antiquated chandelier reflected on the face of Father O’Brien. O’Brien’s slippers slapped on the floor like a snap of a belt strap. Father O’Brien was still unaware as to who had come to visit him. The priest’s face held a slightly grim business-like expression.
“If you’re busy Father, that’s all right, I just took a chance and dropped by again. So…” Bud was apologetic.
Father O’Brien immediately recognized the youth and his face lit up in a warm smile. “Ah, Bud, yes. Yes. I did say that.’’ I must have gotten the old man at a good moment, thought Bud, but so what, he might change his tune after hearing me out.
“Come in. Come in,’’ the red-faced priest instructed, holding the screen door open, “what brings you tonight?” Yes, what, indeed brings me, asked Bud inwardly.
“Well, you said if I had any questions, to come over. I got a copy of the New Testament from a publishing house in California a translation from the original Greek, you know, like you said. Well, I found those passages we talked about last month…’’
‘’Did you bring that Bible with you?” the tall, thin priest asked ushering the boy into one of the side offices off the corridor. He gestured that the boy to be seated in front of a huge oak desk. The priest took out a cigarette from his pocket and began to light it as he situated himself in the large, cushioned desk chair. “Did you bring some notes?” queried the priest.
“Naw, no, I didn’t. However, I did stay up late several nights to read, so I still have a fairly good idea of the passages.” Bud informed the priest. The priest looked amiably at the boy, with his arms folded on the desk and his face somewhat clouded in a puff of cigarette smoke. As the evening progressed, the priest would place the cigarette in an ashtray near him following a series of nervous puffs. “It’s a literal translation of the original Greek, ah, it’s put out by the Concordant Publishing Concern. Ever hear of it?”
“No, but it sounds interesting.” The priest continued to smile as he reached into one of his desk drawers. The veins in the underside of his wrinkled arm seemed to have risen prominently, denoting his age. How tired he looked, Bud was thinking, but the smile on that pixyish Irish face caused Bud to ask of himself: I wonder if my laughter looked as amiable, a smile that had perpetual look of youth. “And I…and I have my Jerusalem Bible,’’ continued the priest. He placed the Bible squarely in front of him like an attorney presenting his court brief, or an oriental marketman presenting his wares, placing his hands on the item in a show of authority.
(Well, already it felt like home, Bud was thinking, and he began to relax. But his easing was short-lived as his memory starkly found himself in the terror of on-coming conflict in his single room, waiting for the sound of the front door to open and bang against the vestibule wall.
“You son-of-a-bitch! Don’t talk to me! Go on! Go to bed! You…” would come the shouting, the slurred drunken diatribe of his mother.
“Go to hell! Go to hell!” answered the rough drunken monotone of his stepfather, “I do what I damn well want!”
“Go watch your TV….” Came his mother’s intoxicated slur.
“I’ll do what I want! Why don’t you, dear, go back down to your friends…’’
Then would come a few quick steps. The floor would violently vibrate as if wall boards would give way. Someone pushed someone else against a dresser drawer and knocking perfume bottles over, midst grunts of pain and even terror. Then in exasperation:
“All right! All right!’’ his mother was saying to the stepfather. “You lousy…lousy…’’ A huge crash as his mother slammed the front door. Bud could hear plaster fall from parts of the house from the vibration.)
Outside the priest’s office window from the hilltop location, looking along the curve of the river towards the north, Bud could see the lights of the downtown area of the city. Red and white lights trailed all along the river’s bend indicating factories, granaries, and barges. One could still hear the vague drone of the tugboats, even though the sounds of thunder outside said that a storm was either coming or finally going.
“You like to read, Bud?” the elderly man asked as he ran his slender fingers through his hair. The priest relaxed into the desk chair. He had taken off the heavy black coat and was down to his white shirt and that magnificent clerical collar that always was attractive to Bud. The cigarette was hidden in his hand long one side of his head, giving the impression that the smoke was somehow arising from there.
“Well, yes, I guess it’s one of my secret pastimes. I have a good-sized library at home. I guess I am different from other kids that I know.” The priest nodded understandingly.
“Don’t get me wrong, father, I dig girls and cars, I collect jazz and rock records. I…”
“But still, you seek something more?” the priest interjected.
Something more! Something more! Something more! The words rang deeply in his mind and caused discomfort in his chest. “Em, yes, I guess. I guess.” Bud viewed the man curiously. Bud has heard those words before.
“Another thing, Father, while I’ve read the Bible, even gone to Sunday School, I want you to understand that I don’t dig all this Scripture stuff! You hear? I mean, you’ve got a lot against you, Father. You know?”
The priest smiled serenely, stood up, placed his hands to the arch of his back and stretched. Then he walked to the window and looked out.
“You have a lot against you too, you know.” The priest wasn’t trying to be directly sarcastic. He turned to look at the boy, “we all do.”
“Well, I know what you mean by that, Father, but get my point: I believe in the truth, and I’ve seen nothing but perversion of the truth in my life.”
The priest quickly turned to look at the boy. The priest still held a grin, though it was slightly subdued. “Truth?” the priest emphasized, “Bud, I have heard men, famous and infamous, spout that word: Truth! Are you familiar—yes—you said you were familiar with the stories of the Marque de Sade? Now, there was a man who believed that every wicked, idiotic thing he did was some form of the ‘truth.’”
Bud quickly recalled the thick glossed-cover paperback he had hidden in his closet. The book was a colorful history and photographic portrayal of the Marque de Sade, all the bloody orgies and sensuous rituals. There had been one picture that overwhelmed Bud greatly: a nude female with her face looking outward, her one hand upward and stretched in anguish, her eyes agog, as a man, painted a vile devil scarlet was performing some anal sexual act on her. “Yes, but de Sade felt that ‘act’ could be done or not—-that the truth was yet to be discovered in its totality. That no one had that right to say what ‘act’ was or was not to be done. I mean, just maybe de Sade was on to something good.”
The priest shook his head. Boy, this fella seems to have changed his tone since I last talked to him, the priest confided to himself. The priest touched a tapestry made by the Christian Youth Council, it bore a big crucifix and the words ‘Come forth Holy Spirit, come!’ in big jovial-felt letters. Then the priest turned back to his desk and sat down again. He folded his hands one more time and eyed Bud mysteriously.
“If someone came to you, Bud, pointed a gun to your head and fired it pointblank —-would you,’’ the priest’s forehead wrinkled when he said those words, “say something good has come of that?”
Boy, the teenager’s thoughts were whirling about him: You can pick some ‘good ones’ can’t you Father? Bud gave a sick little smile and nervously crossed his legs. Bud noticed that the office had appeared somewhat dull for what he had expected of a rectory. There was a well-used filing cabinet. A buffet table with religious books. The desk. Two chairs. One tapestry. One crucifix. And a small picture of Christ hanging on a cross with an aerial view of mourners praying at His feet.
“Well, I guess nobody wants to die. But who can say what would come out of my death?” Bud began to speculate. “I mean maybe somewhere there are cults of murder…”
“There are!” Father O’Brien interrupted sternly. “But come on, Bud, are you trying to tell me that people—-that you—-wouldn’t care if somebody blew your brains out? That’s fine in theory—-nutty theory—-but in actuality? Don’t you see, Bud, it’s more of this ‘abstract’ mumbo-jumbo various people are handing out today.”
And the Church, Father, and the Church, Bud jeered to himself, but we’ll get to that shortly, my pixie-looking friend.
“You see, Bud, Jesus was just that way. He was a down-to-earth, so-to-speak realist, but an idealistic-perfectionist too. He said that your conversation be ‘Yea, Yea and Nay, Nay,’ not this mystical jargon and doubletalk. He laid things down in black and white Remember what he said about His Law? That it should not pass away; that Heaven and Earth could disappear first. He said that He came not to destroy, but to fulfill the Law.”
The scream of automobile tires were now flooding Bud’s memory. One, two, three dragsters pulled out of the auditorium parking-lot of Saint Jude’s parish. It was a breezy-night and Bud and two of his friends stood around a petite, nice-looking teenage girl. All three boys chomped rudely on chewing gum wads; Bud had his hands astutely entrenched in his pockets. His collar was turned up in hipster style.
“Come on doll, Jake’s got his car running; it’s a buet, ain’t it” Bud asked the shyly smiling girl. ‘‘Let’s swing. We’ll drag out of here; get some sodas. Take a little ride.’’ Bud winked at one of his friends casually leaning out of the car door. His friend smiled fiendishly back, “And then, well, we’ll take you home.”
Her smile broadened and she nodded sheepishly. “All right, but I have to be home before midnight. I must go to Mass tomorrow morning.” Jake’s words “it only takes a little while” were drowned-out by the squall of a dragster’s tires.
“You made a point of the fact that I like to read, Father,’’ Bud fidgeted with the pages of a Living New Testament that he found on the corner of the desk. “Well, it’s a little more than a pastime. I think I am looking for something—-the truth. The truth. Have you read some of the Higher Critics?” Bud smiled wickedly.
The priest looked a little alarmed. He tapped the ash from his cigarette somewhat nervously. What a weird twist for a neighborhood renegade, the priest was thinking! I would have expected this conversation to be saturated with cars, girls, and beer. “Yes. They claim that Jesus hadn’t really been the Messiah, just a human being who did no real miracles.’’
“I know them,” the priest answered coolly, “ and they hadn’t added one bit for or against the question.” He lowered his eyes just for a moment and parted his lips slowly. “You know Bud, I ‘ve heard this argument before. And it has usually been put forward by those who are often less than honest.’’ Twitch, twitch, twitch tingled Bud’s nerves in his chest. ‘‘One man,” the priest lowered and raised his right hand as if to show it floating on an air-cushion, “wants to see Christ as anything but the Supreme. He wants to see Him as a man as weak and mundane as himself, so he goes into the written history of the Man —- or his bibliographies —- and begins to tear them apart bit by bit —- like a nefarious attorney.”
“And what do they hope to gain by that?” the boy asked innocently. The priest smiled dryly and again grew sober suddenly: “Their lust, Bud. Their lust.”
“Lust?” asked the boy. Twitch, twitch, twitch continued tht nervous tingle.
“Money. Those that feel that they need large amounts. They want more. Christ somehow stands in their way. Power: some see great gains in position and ownership. Christ, again, seems to stand in the way. Or, Bud, they crave human flesh. Sensuously, they worship one creation of God—fiendishly—-all out of proportion and more than their Creator’s intention.”
“And if they’re correct?” the boy began to narrate a few biblical passages as he spoke. The priest looked nonplussed; his mind began to wander as he gazed at the sheen of the boys hair. For a moment, the priest saw himself so many years ago; much, much healthier then; missing was the arthritis that completely tacked his aging body—-and the stiffness and aching of his left arm which carried a stinging sensation that would reach all the to his fingertips. It was cancer! Cancer, the priest thought solemnly, cancer! But that was a recent development and the priest thanked God again that it hadn’t always been like this. Soon the effects of drugs would wear off and he would feel somewhat guilty for being so selfish to think of his own infliction.
“Let us make one thing clear, Bud. Either Christ was everything He said He was, or, He was the biggest liar that ever existed, for He claimed to be God’s Perfect Son!” The priest looked statuesque at the boy; the gaze was different than any other he had seen from the older man. It was a gaze that seemed to say that ‘games’ had beginnings and endings, and that some moments were more than frivolous pastimes, moments to be flitted away; that life and death were stark realities; and here was a person who had a different—-sober and different—-way of looking at the situation. And just as suddenly, Bud began to feel a rage building-up within himself: partly due to an adolescent vanity, but also due to the alarming indifference, compliancy, and dank degeneracy that he had crammed into his nineteen years of life.
“And if he wasn’t?” Bud asked gristly. Someone, perhaps a fellow priest, had a stereo playing upstairs. The strings of Tchaikovay’s Piano Concerto No. 1 weaved its way downstairs. The priest raised himself up again and shut the door cautiously, all the while as if in deep thought. He began to caress his aching arm, successfully camouflaging the pain.
“We’ve been through all this before, Bud. You don’t think this big organization called the Christian Church began out of a hoax? There is something there, Bud. Do you remember what Christ said about the Holy Spirit and the guidance of His Church?”
“Yah, I read that, Father. I also remember where Saint Paul said that ‘wolves’ had entered the fold way back then. Besides, if all those churches are Christian, how can they qualify for Christ’s description as a small flock?”
“Comparatively speaking,” the priest answered rapidly. “Christianity comprises only a tiny percentage of the world population. So, you see, Bud, we still are a small flock.”
“Yeah, well, you might just have thrown it in a drain. It’s done no good.” The fury in the boy had begun to build.
“Wait a minute, let’s be fair. I know that you are going to say. But Christ said His Church was flesh and blood human beings; and they did make mistakes.”
‘“ Be ye perfect even as you Father in Heaven is perfect…’” The boy was reading a passage in the Bible.
“Yes, but not totally in their present human bodies!”
“But ‘God has not called us unto uncleanness, but unto holiness,’” Bud cited another passage he saw after flipping a few more pages.
‘‘Ah, this won’t get you anywhere. First things, first, Bud.” said the priest. “Your ignoring quite a bit of Church History. The lives of the Saints. Some of the better Popes. Modern miracles. It’s a matter of logic and priorities. Have you heard of the Miracles of Lourdes—-or even the Vision of the Virgin at Guarabandel, Spain?’’
The smoldering frustration within his limbs had finally exploded, but the fumes of that explosion leaked through his mouth slowly but more delicately.
“Let me tell you something, Father, when I was seventeen, I was dating a girl who had been a Catholic since her childhood. When I first met her, she was attending Mass every Sunday! Every Sunday! She mut have attended Confession too for I recall her telling me that the Confessional priest had told her not to see me anymore. He was right: I was seducing her quite often, at least once a week in the leisure of her own home. She was sixteen.”
The two people just stared at each other momentarily. The priest looked completely paralyzed. O’Brien was thinking: I don’t want to ‘tear’ into this kid, for he is much more than one single boy—-he seems to be ‘every’ boy—-any boy, any person, that needs a loving father; at least, how often have I heard that? But then, when Satan is face to face with you, O’Brien conferred to himself, you only feel contempt.
“That’s a Catholic girl,” Bud continued, “but I could say the same thing for Lutherans, Methodists….”
“I’ll be damned!” The words fumbled out of the priest’s mouth.
“That’s another thing, Father, that a religious person could curse so…’’
“It’s only an expression, no one is making a solemn oath.”
“Sodom and Gomorrah were damned,” Bud continued, ‘that’s supposed to be real and very solemn.”
“It’s an expression, you’ll hear priests and Catholics say it,” the old man explained resolutely.
“So, if fornication and drunkenness are accepted, does that mean we can do as we please?” the boy protested disingenuously.
“Those are realities, Bud, not just expressions!”
(It had been a rough day for Father O’Brien in many different respects. The Parish was in bad need if funds. It was a common problem in the Church. Annually, budgets were far from being met, and the extravagant measures that various priests invented to raise money, in the least, were ludicrous and sometimes dishonest. For Father O’Brien, it meant the debt of $4,000 to the carnival supply for the school picnic. The picnic proceeds had gone immediately to pay the salaries of three High School teachers who had been threatening sojourns. The Covent Nuns were limited to Grade School instruction and all appeared, based on rumor and experience, horrified to face High School students. Admittedly, there seemed to be a general and growing unrest, a continual anxiety as to the general quality of the Catholic Education here and at other Parishes.)
Father O’Brien rubbed his diseased arm, looking at it sympathetically. His affliction turned for the worse this day. Upon another visit to the hospital, the worse that he had suspected had come true: he had only a short time alive, to be on this Earth. Maybe a few months, he was told, maybe a year; but certainly, no more.
The priest looked at his covered arm, his Armageddon personified and covered before him. The Hill of Midiggo mentioned in the Book of Revelations, became more than just a description: It became the towering walls of the seemingly small priest’s office. The whole world seemed to suddenly converge on the youngster; a mysterious substance of love, hate, warmth, cold. The priest suddenly recalled the conversation he had with Mrs. Holleran just the week before as he and the parish housekeeper prepared an evening meal:
“I get so confused, Father, by all the unrest and confusion in the world. It worries me sometimes,” Mrs. Holleran was explaining as the priest smoked his after-meal pipe. “But the one place a person should feel completely safe, Father, is in the Church.”
“That’s one of its functions,” the priest spoke amiably as he puffed on the pipe.
“But that’s not my point: It is not! It’s not safe, not like it use to be,” the woman interjected, “it seems to me that years ago one heard the word ‘Sanctuary’ of the Church; and that meant a lot of things, but mainly that a person could look to the Church for sanctuary for himself, I suppose. That the disciplines the Church asked members and society to adhere to be a way of people protecting themselves from the world and themselves. Now, Father, it seems to be so confusing, so upside-down, anything goes — nealismistic—is that the correct word?”
‘‘Nihilistic, Mrs. Holleran, nihilistic. Yes. But if that’s true, for the Catholic Church, then it’s true for all Churches; Lutheran, Baptists….” The priest paused for a moment. “Besides, didn’t Christ say that He guaranteed the safe existence till he returned? That was a promise!”
Mrs. Holleran stopped placing dishes on the kitchen sink to soberly look at the priest . “I’m not a Bible Student, mainly I thought we Catholics weren’t allowed to read the Bible until about 1947, and it was always in Greek, literally that is. But I know a few things, Father, and no one has adequately explained how this hodge-podge of murder, wicked politics and rebellion that’s going on today, can’t be partly blamed on the Church. There’s a conspiracy of assort, Father, and some of these new teachings don’t hit the nail on the head. They just don’t.’’
“Well. The Church will always have problems, Mrs. Holleran. But people tend to see things in a limited light. If Christ is in the world, how can anything be really wrong?”
“I read Matthew the 10th Chapter the other day. Are you sure, Father, that Christ is in the world?’’ She smiled slightly.
‘‘You mean that He doesn’t exist?”
“Oh no. I mean, maybe we aren’t a part of his plan – maybe ‘ we’ aren’t on his side like we thought. Maybe, maybe, Father, we misinterpret His strategy!”
Strategy! Strategy! Strategy! The words rang in the priest’s mind causing a vibration that ended when he put out the stub or his cigarette. He began to rub his arm nervously. The pain had rapidly reached a certain level, and he knew it would only be a few more minutes before he would leave the room least he make a spectacle. Why are all the forces of evil working against me tonight? Now and then, flashes from the past, pleasant little memories of his days at the Seminary, and of his childhood, would filer through to his consciousness.
“You mean, Father, that as long as a Church-member has ‘faith,’” Bud was beginning to jeer, “that this allows him to do as he well damn pleases? Ha! You mean a family could be in some dire situation, personally ought about by themselves; poverty; crime; some degeneracy; but if they keep a Bible out on a dresser that is glanced at every now and then, that these people are virtuous hiding behind this so-called ‘faith?’’’
“No, no, Bud.’’ The priest gritted his teeth to hide growing pain in his arm. “It takes obedience to God’s Laws.” Father O’Brien was planning an exit strategy to get himself out of the room and out of the conversation and somehow to masquerade the pain.
“God’s Laws?” Bud smiled wickedly. “I attended a Catholic Mass a few times, Father; first your greeted by shapely thigh of a well-stacked female parading in front of you; then two, three or four and more girls wearing short skirts. I don’t suppose you realize how much a girl’s buttocks incites a young man’s passions?”
“We don’t approve of all these questionable fashions,” the priest said grimacing. “We have an organization in the Church that criticizes immodesty of dress. Besides, you can’t keep people from Church just because of the way they’re dressed.”
“But it’s okay for a man to ‘lust’? Let me tell you something else, Father, I know come of the kids that go to Church and I can tell you some of the stupid, lewd, dirty things they do when they go home and venture about. Not just Catholics, but Lutherans and a glut of the neighborhood. Betty Carson had invited me to her Youth Fellowship Night at the Messiah Lutheran School last year. Oh, they had basketball and ping-pong; but do you know what went on behind open doors, in the shadows, he hallways. Sex, Father, plain, raw sex.”
“Stop it, Bud!” O’Brien churned painfully in his chair. Briefly, momentarily, O’Brien visualized himself as a small boy of four-years walking in his mother’s garden trying to catch a beautiful butterfly. O’Brien would dip over the brick guard, politely trying to avoid crushing the flowers. Suddenly, he tried too hard, tripping, and falling. He began to cry. Within minutes the soothing voice and caressing arms of his mother were about him.
O’Brien’s childhood vision vanished from him and once again he became focused on the teenager seated before him. “I know some very fine and commendable people in the Church, Bud.”
“Father, I would just love to believe you. Heart and soul. But I can’t, not until I get this out of my chest: I need to make you see, Father. Can’t you see, Father?” Bud was vehement and pleading; the boy had been looking for that attracting lodestone of morality and truth! He had looked for it in the faces of his friends, of his schoolmates. He had looked for it in the stories of and tales of great writers and the not so great. There were always the various grownups that were able to produce an air of sophistication, nobility, and more so, popularity. But here, before him, was another type of individual —- a priest; the one type of person that he could have thought of as good and fine. Well, Bud would try —- if just a little; but no tricks, O’Brien, Bud announced to himself, no tricks.
“Bud, there is just so much that we could go into. Catholicism is built on an exceptionally fine tradition. Look at the Saints. Saint Sebastian, have you heard of him?” Saint Sebastian was the Captain of the soldiers who guarded the Roman Emperor but he also befriended suffering Christians. He was put to death for his compassion, he was martyred. “And there are many others: Saint Francis, Saint Lawrence…”
“What is a Saint considered today, Father? To be a Saint today, you must be a ‘demythologizer’—-denying all miracles in the name of what is called ‘natural science?’” Bud argued sardonically; his face barely hid a growing rage. “And what does that mean? First, that a lot of your ’Saints’ are nonexistent myths; that the New Testament miracles of Jesus are fairy tales; that Moses didn’t really make water come out of a rock; that modern visions such as Fatima are the works of mass hysteria. The psychologists call them hallucinations of the collective unconscious…” The boy wrestled uncomfortably in his chair. Outside, the soft pitter-patter of rain had begun with the cool trickles glazing on the windows. “…that we are the end product of a long line of animals formed from a primal primitive ooze at the dawn of time: Evolution, and some try to keep God in the picture—-theistic evolution, I believe…”
“I know that some of the younger priests like Father Herbert feel that way, Bud,” sullenly continued the priest. “Maybe quite a few of them do. But I assure you, Bud, that I don’t. I guess I am dedicated to that ole’ time religion, I don’t know. But it is true, there is a movement to liberalize what I would consider certain immutable teachings in the Church.”
In a moment of sad remembrance, and despite the increasing pain, Father Eugene O’Brien suddenly recalled a moment of himself as a 10-year-old as he walked the extra six blocks to Saint Jude’s Church. It was early Winter. Everything surrendered to the cold nip in the air. Eugene could have carpooled but instead walked twelve blocks out of the way, every morning now for several months so that he could attend an early mass.
“Eugene, don’t you think it’s a little special,” Sister Veronica had said to him one day, ‘‘that you walk several blocks out of your way everyday just so you could go to mass?’’
“I don’t know, Sister, I guess I never thought about it,” the young ‘priest-to-be’ said. Gene quickly grabbed a tissue from his pocket to wipe his dripping nose.
“It’s so cold these mornings, and most children haven’t been attending Mass regularly because of the weather. Do you think God’s been calling you?” The boy just looked at the Nun questioningly. “What do you want to be when you grow up? Have you thought about it, Eugene? Have you thought about becoming a priest?”
As the pain stretched further and further into O’Brien’s shoulder and to the foremost corners of his fingers, the priest swore to himself that he would order the boy to leave any minute. It was a short-sighted mistake not to have brought more pain tablets downstairs; and he would not feel guilty at all to ask the boy to leave. Still, the priest suddenly realized that some fateful reality depended deeply on him at this moment. It was as if he had a vision of things as never before, and slowly, things had begun to fall into place. Maybe he had begun to wake-up from the slumber so many others had particularly accepted as part of their struggle; at that, when did the priest begin to even think it was anybody else’s responsibility?
Before O’Brien sat someone that he could have sworn he had seen so many time before: in different seasons, different circumstances, but whose purpose was always the same. The moving lips, the quivering face of the boy, became the personification of the evils of other times, of other eras. Father O’Brien remembered the banner headlines of newspapers during his boyhood: the racketeers, the machinegun massacres. Why was it so convenient to pretend that the “New Creation” depended on something so untampered, so disassociated from this wickedness? What was the strategy of the Almighty, and wasn’t it a little foolish for a priest to be asking this question?
“Man, that’s crazy,” Bud stood-up quickly and began to pace the room, “‘certain Immutable’…I can only tell you what I see, Father. What do you priests do in your spare-time anyway, close yourself off from the rest of the world? Read only book out of the seminary libraries? You can read some pretty weird stuff there now, I understand.”
“You have to live up to it, Bud” the priest said, “you can’t just keep denying your part in God’s Plan…”
“I’ve been telling you what the kids today have been doing with ‘God’s Plan’——what’s the use?”
“Should we give up?” the priest grimaced, wrinkling his forehead. The priest began to perspire heavily.
“Should we keep pretending that colorful statues, pretty hymns, and wicked Church picnics are going to make any difference with the lewd ‘double life’ the people are leading?” Bud raced to the edge of the desk, leaned forward, smirking daringly into the priest’s face. Bud’s voice echoed within the room.
Was this the priest’s Waterloo? His Appomattox? His personal Armageddon? Or, was it the beginning of the end of all mankind? The answer was not available for the moment. Instead, O’Brien drew a folded handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed the perspiration from about his face. His diseased arm lay limply on his lap, and it appeared hard and swollen with a pale greenish color in varying degrees.
Sudden feverish flashes out of the past appeared in O’Brien’s memory. His Theology Studies at Jackson Seminary. The beautiful choir and the crucifix held high before the long row of graduating priests. He recalled his first administrating of the Eucharist (“The Body of Christ,” “The Body of Christ…”) going from one parishioner to the next. His first sermon before a live laity (“The New Creation begins—-we are The New Creation…’’ the sermon started.) And one of his most remember able Confessionals (“Father, I have gravely sinned, I have murdered…”) between the priest and a middle-aged lady.)
“Are you so sure you have any of the answers? Is not the Church a sinking ship that every able-bodied is trying to abandon by changing its doctrines and meaning to suite their own comfortable philosophy?” Bud said angrily, tauntingly pacing the floor in front of the desk, “That is, farther, if the doctrines of the Catholic Church are even accurate to begin with! Why, Concordant translators of the original Greek say there is no such thing as ‘everlasting hellfire’ in the Greek, the original Greek speaks only of ‘age-lasting chastisement,’” Bud picked the Jerusalem Bible up and then brought it down again with a slap, “they say that King James saw only what he wanted to see in the original manuscripts. They say that the doctrine of the Trinity wasn’t a part of the original. They say that two-thirds of the Old and New Testament prophecies pertain to our own present-day age and the destruction to come upon us!”
The priest wanted to interrupt Bud’s soliloquy but his pain prevented him from interjecting and he sat immobile in torture, his arm riddled with throbbing pulsations. Bud continued:
“They say Catholicism is replete with Paganism —- from its inception to the present day! They say the Church is the ‘whore’ mentioned in the Book of Revelations and that the Church is in apostasy. You see, Father, I’ve read a little!”
(Bud’s memory took him momentarily to another cloudy day. Bud had slowly walked to the front of an old Catholic Church and observed the Church’s medieval-style architecture. In the center of the towering steeples was the stature of some famous Catholic Bishop from a century now lost behind us. The statue’s nose was chipped and a few fingers were missing from the hand which was grasping a shepherd’s staff. Because of this vandalism, a mystery to passerby’s, the parishioners enclosed the statue in a hard plastic booth. What an odd religion, Bud had thought, and Bud immediately began to recall the conflicting views he had read in the circulars of the Baptists and Jehovah’s Witnesses that had been placed in the front screen door from time to time.)
As the priest tried to sit erect, he began to cough, and small strains of saliva dribbled out of his mouth, but he held the spit back successfully by coughing. He felt very nauseated, and he wanted to make a formal prayer, but what resulted was only a crushed alibi: Satan, why did you tempt me with such an amiable boy, turned dragon? Where there had been hope last month, now had turned into a curse.
(“Eugene,” the Archbishop told the priest several weeks before, “you’ve been doing a very able job at Saint Matthew’s. You know it, and I know it. But from what the doctor’s report is saying, your health is failing and the X-rays on your arm don’t look promising.”
(“We have some major projects going on here at Saint Matthew’s,” the priest retorted.
(“Yes, well, I think you’ll understand that I have to look after my people. You’ve always wanted to go to France and Lourdes. Well, go, and with my blessing! And when you come back, you will find that God will still provide you with a task in keeping with your strength.” )
“Satan is a myth!” the intense lips of the teenager continued, “The Scriptures are a myth! And now, are you so sure, Father, that you too aren’t a myth?”
“What of the realities? Nobody can deny the realities?” the priest rocked forwards as if to stand, but all he could do was to continue to feel the neurological stings of his disease. ‘‘Spiritual realities! What of Love?”
“Love? Is it love that caused my bother to die from venereal disease? Is it love that caused the massacre of thousands of infants in Red China during the ‘purge’? Was it love that allowed my mother to divorce my father, ruining the best years of my life? And what about the news headlines, or, is that a myth also? Is this all there is of the New Creation?”
Bud was now swirling around and around in the room as if to lecture to an invisible assembly gathered high above him.
“I am a priest! I am to give you answers! You must ‘Love’!”
The room began to swirl about Father O’Brien now as he tried to raise to his feet, holding a tight grip to the edge of the desk. “You must ‘Love’!”
“Oh, I’ll love all right, Father. I’m going to plow every able-bodied—-and maybe not so able-bodied—-female, one by one, in a bed, or any other place I can screw them. I’ll get mine!” Don’t fool me, old man, Bud angrily jeered to himself. “Drugs, liquor, excess—we’ll freak out, man: and in the end we’ll have ‘loved,’ yeah, sure, will have….’’
“You must ‘Love’!” the feeble priest demanded pounding his knuckles into the desktop, his face aflame with agony and his body quivering in exasperation. “You must ‘love,’ for God’s sake, ‘Love’!”
Instantaneously, the office door smashed against the office wall! The black smock of a fellow priest tore from a rack and thudded against the office window! Pencils and pens in a desk canister rose vertically several feet , suspended momentarily, and then went crashing against a wall. An accompanying office chair flipped completely over. In true poltergeist fashion, books on the office shelf propelled out into the office.
A fellow priest, Father Raymond Herbert, as well as the white apron of the housekeeper, appeared into the matrix. “Father O’Brien!” came the startled voice of Father Herbert. “Get out of here!’’ shouted the housekeeper. Bud could feel someone yanking on his jacket and forcing the boy out of the office. “Get out of here, you beast! Get!” The housekeeper was waving a broom in Bud’s face. Swap, lash, slap! Bud felt a peculiar exhaustion as if in a boxing match: everything was happening so suddenly.
The screen door slammed into his face, and Bud quickly got a glimpse of the elderly Father O’Brien being led into the hallway: no longer the stout priest who Bud had spoken to over the previous weeks, but a decrepit old man, doubled-up in in pain, whimpering as they led the priest to the stairway.
Bud exhaustingly found himself looking down at his shoes and outside of the thick rectory door. Stunned, Bud stood staring momentarily at his feet. Then he slowly walked across the lawn pillared by the forlorn evergreens. He glanced over his shoulder to see the stairway light turn on. The haunting sounds of the river businesses were being accompanied by rain drizzle.
Bud looked at one window on the second floor of the church rectory that he knew would light up any minute. It, however, seemed like an eternity, but finally a glow arose from within the room. Its yellow radiance stood out as a beacon in the darkened neighborhood.
Bud began to bite his lip as he was choking on his emotions. He knew now that the priest was no enemy: He could tell the difference between the teardrops and the raindrops on his cheeks—-he continually cried until near midnight when the light no longer shone from the priest’s window and another day was about to begin.
Mary Jane would just have to wait indefinitely. Tonight, Bud had felt and learned of a special and unique‘love.’
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In our time, more modern hybrid offspring who are unaware of the Saurian traits they carry from generations past often experience a sense of “Othernesss,” or “not belonging.”
A mundane yet observatory position in society where the day to day living of humans seems almost hive-like in hits behavior. These Saurian hybrid offspring often question their own place in the world and begin their search to find their purpose.
Some find others like themselves and live happy and rich lives. Others continue to dig and explore the alternative.
A hybrid offspring has the ability to carry numerous Saurian traits.
Among these traits, to name just a few are:
RHNegative blood type (A-, B-, O-);
Gold, green or blue eyes;
Higher sensitivity to electromagnetic fields;
Heightened extrasensory perception;
Enhanced empathy and projection.
Some hybrids carry one of these traits or possibly two. The more of these traits a being carries within, the more difficult it is for such people to feel connected within society as others simply do not understand the way hybrids think, feel or operate.
These feelings are normal and there are more of us than you realize. All you must do is reach out and discover such other beings for yourself.
About Informed mRNA Vaccine Consent: Frank Shallenberger, MD, HMD
Published on December 12, 2020
Written by Frank Shallenberger, MD, HMD
Edited by Robert D. Morningstar
Dear Patients and Friends:
I must have been asked 20 times about the new COVID vaccines. Here are my thoughts. Please pass this information onto many as you can. People need to have fully informed consent when it comes to injecting foreign genetic material into their bodies.
The COVID vaccines are mRNA vaccines. mRNA vaccines are a completely new type of vaccine. No mRNA vaccine has ever been licensed for human use before. In essence, we have absolutely no idea what to expect from this vaccine. We have no idea if it will be effective or safe.
Traditional vaccine simply introduce pieces of a virus to stimulate an immune reaction. The new mRNA vaccine is completely different. It actually injects (transfects) molecules of synthetic genetic material from non-humans sources into our cells. Once in the cells, the genetic material interacts with our transfer RNA (tRNA) to make a foreign protein that supposedly teaches the body to destroy the virus being coded for. Note that these newly created proteins are not regulated by our own DNA, and are thus completely foreign to our cells. What they are fully capable of doing is unknown.
The mRNA molecule is vulnerable to destruction. So, in order to protect the fragile mRNA strands while they are being inserted into our DNA they are coated with PEGylated lipid nanoparticles. This coating hides the mRNA from our immune system which ordinarily would kill any foreign material injected into the body. PEGylated lipid nanoparticles have been used in several different drugs for years. Because of their effect on immune system balance, several studies have shown them to induce allergies and autoimmune diseases. Additionally, PEGylated lipid nanoparticles have been shown to trigger their own immune reactions, and to cause damage to the liver.
These new vaccines are additionally contaminated with aluminum, mercury, and possibly formaldehyde. The manufacturers have not yet disclosed what other toxins they contain.
Since viruses mutate frequently, the chance of any vaccine working for more than a year is unlikely. That is why the flu vaccine changes every year. Last year’s vaccine is no more valuable than last year’s newspaper.
Absolutely no long term safety studies will have been done to ensure that any of these vaccines don’t cause the cancer, seizures, heart disease, allergies, and autoimmune diseases seen with other vaccines. If you ever wanted to be guinea pig for Big Pharma, now is your golden opportunity.
Many experts question whether the mRNA technology is ready for prime time. In November 2020, Dr. Peter Jay Hotez said of the new mRNA vaccines said:
“I worry about innovation at the expense of practicality because they [the mRNA vaccines] are weighted toward technology platforms that have never made it to licensure before.”
Dr. Hotez is Professor of Pediatrics and Molecular Virology & Microbiology at Baylor College of Medicine, where he is also Director of the Texas Children’s Hospital Center for Vaccine Development.
Michal Linial, PhD is a Professor of Biochemistry. Because of her research and forecasts on COVID-19, Dr. Linial has been widely quoted in the media. She recently stated, “I won’t be taking it [the mRNA vaccine] immediately – probably not for at least the coming year. We have to wait and see whether it really works. We will have a safety profile for only a certain number of months, so if there is a long-term effect after two years, we cannot know.”
In November 2020, The Washington Post reported on hesitancy among healthcare professionals in the United States to the mRNA vaccines, citing surveys which reported that: “some did not want to be in the first round, so they could wait and see if there are potential side effects”, and that “doctors and nurses want more data before championing vaccines to end the pandemic”.
Since the death rate from COVID resumed to the normal flu death rate way back in early September, the pandemic has been over since then. Therefore, at this point in time no vaccine is needed. The current scare tactics regarding “escalating cases” is based on a PCR test that because it exceeds 34 amplifications has a 100% false positive rate unless it is performed between the 3rd and 5th day after the first day of symptoms. It is therefor 100% inaccurate in people with no symptoms. This is well established in the scientific literature. See the attachment (False Positive PCR testing is up to 100%!) for more information on this. If you go to the CDC site (file:///C:/Users/docto/AppData/Local/Temp/cdc_97230_DS1.pdf ), you can see that the weekly death rates in the US are now lower than they normally are during an average flu season.
The other reason you don’t need a vaccine for COVID-19 is that substantial herd immunity has already taken place in the United States. This is the primary reason for the end of the pandemic.
Unfortunately, you cannot completely trust what you hear from the media. They have consistently got it wrong for the past year. Since they are all supported by Big Pharma and the other entities selling the COVID vaccines, they are not going to be fully forthcoming when it comes to mRNA vaccines. Every statement I have made here is fully backed by published scientific references.
I would be very interested to see verification that Bill and Melinda Gates with their entire family including grandchildren, Joe Biden and President Trump and their entire families, and Anthony Fauci and his entire family all get the vaccine.
Anyone who after reading all this still wants to get injected with the mRNA vaccine, should at the very least have their blood checked for COVID-19 antibodies. There is no need for a vaccine in persons already naturally immunized.
Here’s My Bottom Line:
I Would Much Rather Get A COVID Infection Than Get A COVID Vaccine. That Would Be Safer And More Effective. I Have Had A Number Of COVID Positive Flu Cases This Year. Some Were Old And Had Health Concerns.
Every Single One Has Done Really Well With Natural Therapies Including Ozone Therapy And IV Vitamin C.
Just Because Modern Medicine Has No Effective Treatment For Viral Infections, Doesn’t Mean That There Isn’t One.
DR. SIMONE GOLD – THE TRUTH ABOUT THE CV19 VACCINE (2021)
Garade, Damien (10 November 2020). “The story of mRNA: How a once-dismissed idea became a leading technology in the Covid vaccine race”. Stat. Retrieved 16 November 2020.
Cooney, Elizabeth (1 December 2020). “How nanotechnology helps mRNA Covid-19 vaccines work”. Stat. Retrieved 3 December 2020.
Roberts, Joanna (1 June 2020). “Five things you need to know about: mRNA vaccines”. Horizon. Retrieved 16 November 2020.
PHG Foundation (2019). “RNA vaccines: an introduction”. University of Cambridge. Retrieved 18 November 2020.
Pardi, Norbert; Hogan, Michael J.; Porter, Frederick W.; Weissman, Drew (April 2018). “mRNA vaccines — a new era in vaccinology”. Nature Reviews Drug Discovery. 17 (4): 261–279. doi:10.1038/nrd.2017.243. PMC 5906799. PMID 29326426.
Kramps, Thomas; Elders, Knut (2017). “Introduction to RNA Vaccines”. RNA Vaccines: Methods and Protocols. doi:10.1007/978-1-4939-6481-9_1. ISBN 978-1-4939-6479-6. Retrieved 18 November 2020.
Dogan, Ellie (25 November 2020). “COVID-19 vaccines poised for launch, but impact on pandemic unclear”. Nature. doi:10.1038/d41587-020-00022-y. Retrieved 30 November 2020.
“Seven vital questions about the RNA Covid-19 vaccines emerging from clinical trials”. Wellcome Trust. 19 November 2020. Retrieved 26 November 2020.
Jaffe-Hoffman, Maayan (17 November 2020). “Could mRNA COVID-19 vaccines be dangerous in the long-term?”. The Jerusalem Post. Retrieved 17 November 2020.
Eugene Gu (21 May 2020). “This is the hard-to-swallow truth about a future coronavirus vaccine (and yes, I’m a doctor)”. The Independent. Retrieved 23 November 2020.
Rowland, Christopher (21 November 2020). “Doctors and nurses want more data before championing vaccines to end the pandemic”. Washington Post. Retrieved 22 November 2020.
Thomas, Katie (22 October 2020). “Experts Tell F.D.A. It Should Gather More Safety Data on Covid-19 Vaccines”. New York Times. Retrieved 21 November 2020.
Kuchler, Hannah (30 September 2020). “Pfizer boss warns on risk of fast-tracking vaccines”. Financial Times. Retrieved 21 November 2020.
Guarascio, Francesco (2 December 2020). “EU criticizes ‘hasty’ UK approval of COVID-19 vaccine”. Reuters. Retrieved 2 December 2020.
Berglund, Peter; Smerdou, Cristian; Fleeton, Marina N.; Tubulekas, Loannis; Liljeström, Peter (June 1998). “Enhancing immune responses using suicidal DNA vaccines”. Nature Biotechnology. 16 (6): 562–565. doi:10.1038/nbt0698-562. ISSN 1546-1696.
Garde, Damien (10 January 2017). “Lavishly funded Moderna hits safety problems in bold bid to revolutionize medicine”. Stat. Archived from the original on 16 November 2020. Retrieved 19 May 2020.
Jaffe-Hoffman, Maayan (1 December 2020). “Hadassah research head raises questions about mRNA vaccine safety”. The Jerusalem Post. Retrieved 1 December 2020.
Doshi, Peter (26 November 2020). “Pfizer and Moderna’s “95% effective” vaccines—let’s be cautious and first see the full data”. British Medical Journal. Retrieved 3 December 2020.
Reichmuth, Andreas M; Oberli, Matthias A; Jaklenec, Ana; Langer, Robert; Blankschtein, Daniel (May 2016). “mRNA vaccine delivery using lipid nanoparticles”. Therapeutic Delivery. 7 (5): 319–334. doi:10.4155/tde-2016-0006. ISSN 2041-5990. PMC 5439223. PMID 27075952.
Wadman, Meridith (27 November 2020). “Public needs to prep for vaccine side effects”. Science. 370 (6520):
About the author: Frank Shallenberger, MD, HMD runs the Nevada Center of Alternative and Anti-Aging Medicine. Hehas been practicing medicine since 1973 and has been a pioneer in alternative/integrative medicine since 1978. He is one of only 16 physicians in Nevada that are licensed both in conventional medicine as well as alternative and homeopathic medicine. Read more at www.antiagingmedicine.com
Watchers.com, Omar Shemyaza, Travis Smith, Clarence Mitchell, Stephen Erdmann, and Leland Reibling speak out.
We are under attack! Not just from hidden elements within our government, but many governments! Worst yet, they are are all part of a Dark Hidden World that we can now see operating behind and at the edges of our societies and private lives! Evil metastasizes into evil and has a multiplier effort that only deep evil knows. .
Lord knows the devil don’t sleep He never shuts his eyes You never hear him creepin’ Yeah
Battle scars on my heart Lord knows this war ain’t over, no It’s just gettin’ started Just when you thought you had him beat He’s on your shoulder He’s in your ear, he’s whisperin’ Lyin’ again, and again, and again You tell yourself he’ll leave you alone You turn your back, and brother man, it’s on
[Chorus] Lord knows the devil don’t sleep He never shuts his eyes You never hear him creepin’ Heaven knows he’s hell-bent on me Shackles and chains Thank God that He can break me free ‘Cause Lord knows the devil don’t sleep
He’s at your door, don’t let him in He’ll lie, he’ll steal, he’ll kill, he’ll win Just ask me, I’ve been there All you’ll have left is a desperate prayer You pray to God He’ll save your soul Like He has a thousand times before
[Chorus] Lord knows the devil don’t sleep He never shuts his eyes You never hear him creepin’ Heaven knows he’s hell–bent on me Shackles and chains Thank God that He can break me free ‘Cause Lord knows the devil don’t sleep
The devil don’tsleep, no Lord knows the devil don’tsleep He never shuts his eyes You never hear him creepin’ Heaven knows he’s hell–bent on me Shackles and chains Thank God that He can break me free
[Chorus] Lord knows the devil don’t sleep He never shuts his eyes You never hear him creepin’ Heaven knows he’s hell–bent on me Shackles and chains Thank God that He can break me free ‘Cause Lord knows the devil don’t sleep
“As I have discussed in previous articles on mind control such as “They” Can’t Read Your Thoughts … Right? the state of current mind control technology is beyond most’s people comprehension and idea of what is possible. Yet, we have had enough out-of-the-closet whistleblowers and leaked or declassified documents to give us a clear idea of the scary extent to which we can be psychically attacked. Whistleblowers such as Dr. Robert Duncan have lectured at length about the capabilities of V2K technology, which is defined as an EM frequency technology that utilizes RF (Radio Frequency) signals to induce sound within the cranial cavity of the target. V2K literally pipes thoughts directly into people’s heads without them knowing it.
“Kofron talks at length about how this technology is fully operational and is already being tested upon those in society who are struggling (such as those who are homeless, poor and who don’t have much family or many friends) since they make the easiest targets. On his website GangstalkerWars.com, he exposes the details of ongoing operations within Seattle (where he used to work for SIS). This social engineering is being done by the Federal Government, the Military Intelligence agencies, private security firms (more on this below), some of the largest US corporations (after all, we live in a corporatocracy), local and state police, and social programs within inner-city America.
“Kofron warns about an alarming trend in American society: the rise of private security companies who mostly employ ex-military and ex-intelligence agents. As I covered in this 2-part series, the US Military Intelligence Complex is completely and utterly out of control. It runs the government and pulls the strings attached to all the puppet politicians, who don’t have the necessary ‘clearance’ to access the truly top-secret information. These security firms, like the MIC itself, appear to operate above and outside the law.” (Read more in the article.)
“Of course, something needs to be done about this illegal, immoral governmental electronic terrorism. However, seeing the bigger picture, it may be difficult to incriminate the culprits: As mentioned by former CIA engineer and whistleblower Dr Robert Duncan it would be difficult to take the victimization cases to court, as the gang stalking involves a number of people in very high places who could control the law process… Having said that, there are ways and governments are getting pressurized to do something about it: Not just America, gang stalking is happening all over the world.
“Targeted individuals describing their nightmare experiences have shown us that they don’t necessarily have to be major threats to the new world order agenda to be targeted, just people known for having the already mentioned traits and qualities.” (Read more in the article.)
“Today, technology is increasingly folded into our everyday lives. Some 8.4 billion ‘connected things’ will be used globally this year, most of which are vulnerable to hacking and surveillance. Early this year, a German regulatory agency labeled a blond, talking doll named My Friend Cayla ‘an illegal espionage apparatus,’ recommending its destruction. The FDA recently approved the first pill that can track whether a patient has taken it. These Big Brotheresque developments are worrying even if you are not a suspicious or paranoid person. For the TIs, these devices are their worst fears realized. The technology doesn’t just spy on them or track them. It attacks them.” (Read more in the article.)
“The invasion and virtual rape of our lives by covert forces (an activity apparently being given the nod of approval by the U.S. Government) has become a rampant epidemic of sadistic abuse that also appears to be a manipulating tool of augmented fascist indoctrination and conditioning, particularly among those who are recruited to perform these ritualistic acts of torture and psychological terrorism against us. This horrible crime is much more potentially destructive to the inalienable rights of life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness than any other threat before it, and must be recognized as so.” (Read more in the article.)
“Two things must be noted here. Firstly, this can all be done subliminally without you consciously noticing it. Secondly, the idea of pulsed RF signals is exactly what smart meters are doing to destroy your health. Pulsed EM fields are especially dangerous to the human energetic field – and the NWO controllers know it. How will the 5G grid and IoT contribute to all this?
“Interestingly, some have suggested that the TV company Hulu derived its name from Hendricks Loos. Hulu famously released its video ad with Alec Baldwin detailing how they produce programs that turn people’s brains to mush in order to prime the brains up for eating by aliens. Just a coincidence, I’m sure.” (Read more in the article.)
“That is the delivery of bio-nano-particulates into the environment for all of humanity to breathe in and or ingest as well as absorbed through the skin. These nano-particulates contain all the necessary building blocks for a synthetic DNA conversion or as the powers behind the crime will call it ‘DNA Upgrades.’ The following article explains this process, so if you are not yet familiar with the process then I suggest you read the article linked below by clicking the image:
“What needs to be done with 5G WiFi in order for these psychopaths to put it to use for their purposes is to get it distributed all over the planet as much as it is possible for them to do. One way they are currently doing this, and with your help, is to sell the necessary antenna infrastructure as a service you need or ‘must have’ for ‘blazing fast internet speeds everywhere in your home.’” (Read more in the article.)
“Yet beyond that, we have a more obvious and easily demonstrated escape from reality. In this present age, as I have stated, we have two main groups in a fight to the death: The utopians illusionists of the left and the realists of the traditional American conservative persuasion. The left utopians believe in the basic tenant that man is basically good and those that are not good can be molded by the forces of social engineering into being good citizens — good citizens, that is, in their perverted definition. This utopian view assumes that man has been corrupted by his social and mainly economic institutions, such as “white privilege,” capitalism, racism, class discrimination, homophobia and other social phobias. To correct man’s seemingly decrepit state, one needs merely change the institutions of society as they now exist, and in doing so, one can lead mankind into a utopian world. This utopian world, naturally, is a collectivist one of a socialist design in some manner.
“In this view, all crimes and social problems of modern societies are based on a maldistribution of wealth, a lack of tolerance for previously unacceptable behaviors, ownership of private property and an unwillingness of the individual to surrender his or her independence in favor of the collective. What is rarely discussed by the leftist utopians is the perennial question — who shall make the decisions for the collective? Of course, if pressed, they will admit that highly qualified “elites,” much like Plato’s philosopher-kings, will make these decisions. In today’s world, it will be the elite technocrats who will make the decisions.
“Who will select and choose these elites? We are never told. Have they already been chosen by secret councils — the men in the shadows of the deep state? Who shall these elites answer and how shall they be made accountable? We are never told. Worse yet, the leftist in the streets and the leftist scribblers never even bother to think about such things. Most people assume that they will be asked their opinion. Of course, if they knew anything about collectivist political systems, they would realize that once they help usher in the system, they would be dispensed with, killed in mass numbers, imprisoned or marginalized within the lower ranks of the collective. The elite would no longer tolerate moronic opinion.” (Read more in the article.)
“Carnicom’s central message is to alert the audience that chemtrails are far more than for the purpose of atmospheric modification. His research finds that the aerosols also contain bio-engineered filaments that are infecting the global population with exotic, cross-domain bacteria that do not exist in nature.
“Most people infected with the pathogen may exhibit constitutional symptoms of varying intensity but a minority of victims also exhibit skin lesions that can exude visible colored polymer fibers from within the lesions or from under the skin. Carnicom chooses to call the condition ‘Morgellons syndrome’ since it somewhat mimics this previously described condition.” (Read more in the article.)
“My major concern is that there is evidence that they are spraying tons of nanosized aluminum compounds. It has been demonstrated in the scientific and medical literature that nanosized particles are infinitely more reactive and induce intense inflammation in a number of tissues. Of special concern are the effect of these nanoparticles on the brain and spinal cord, as a growing list of neurodegenerative diseases, including Alzheimer’s dementia, Parkinson’s disease, and Lou Gehrig’s disease (ALS) are strongly related to exposure to environmental aluminum.”
“Who will select and choose these elites? We are never told. Have they already been chosen by secret councils — the men in the shadows of the deep state? Who shall these elites answer and how shall they be made accountable? We are never told.”
Given that we exist, then the universe should be just barely habitable according to naturalism, since the number of barely habitable universes should far outnumber the number of highly habitable universes in any one of the many multiverse scenarios offered up by cosmologists..
“The more interesting question concerns the existence of extraterrestrial intelligence (ETI). If we discover ETI comparable in intelligence to a dog or a monkey, then I don’t think the implications would be significant. However, the common view among opinion makers today seems to be that Christians should worry about the discovery of an advanced ETI. Space.com blogger Clara Moskowitz wrote recently on MSNBC.com, ‘Christians, in particular, might take the news hardest, because the Christian belief system does not easily allow for other intelligent beings in the universe, Christian thinkers said at the 100 Year Starship Symposium, a meeting sponsored by the Defense Advanced Research Projects Agency [DARPA] to discuss issues surrounding traveling to other stars.’”
Quote from the above link:
“This should shake our basic view of Christianity,” he said as he sat in his office of the Shalom Hartman Institute in Jerusalem where he is a senior fellow in addition to being the Yehezkel Kaufman Professor of Biblical Studies at Hebrew University. “Resurrection after three days becomes a motif developed before Jesus, which runs contrary to nearly all scholarship. What happens in the New Testament was adopted by Jesus and his followers based on an earlier messiah story.”
“In 1912 in South Africa a giant human-like footprint was found in solid granite. The footprint is of a left foot and is approximately four feet long and eighteen centimeters deep. It is distinct enough to clearly show where mud had squished up between the toes. The footprint is estimated to be about a million years old.”
“Here is another one nobody wants to touch. In a riverbed in Paluxy, Texas, archaeologists have found both dinosaur tracks and human footprints together. Both made at the same time. And, not just one track, but dozens. All the tracks are the same age, about 140 million years old, and they were made together. From the spacing of the footprints, it is clear the ancient person was clearly tracking the dinosaur. Several scientists have said it is not possible; however, those that say this have never gone to visit the prints themselves.”
“But if they’re not demons or angels, and since Catholicism leaves little theoretical room for ‘neutral’ spirits, perhaps what Balducci is getting at is that these entities are physical beings, with bodies of some kind. His other statements about other ‘children of God’ in the cosmos definitely imply that.”
“PAZUZU…Ancient Mesopotamian Monster…Pazuzu is a demon – monster originating from ancient Mesopotamia (modern day Iraq), mentioned in tales from ancient cities, Sumer, Babylon, etc. Pazuzu has characteristics of human and animals, like a canine – like head, (also depicted as having a head of a lion) two set of wings, talons for feet & and has serpentine sexual organ. He has the power to cause destruction, but it is also the protector of the west winds.
“The title says it all really. Part of a cycle of books in the late 1960s and early 70s purporting to interlink and explain the mysteries of the ancient world as a function of extraterrestrial intervention (the most famous of which remains Erich von Daniken’s Chariots of the Gods). Dione’s shtick is to meld Ufology with Biblical doctrine, claiming that God is not a supernatural being but rather the most technologically advanced entity in the universe.”
Quote from the above article.
“New archaeological discoveries show us that history may not be exactly as we learned in school.
“Rather than thinking about history as a picture, try visualizing it as a puzzle that lacks all of its pieces. For centuries, researchers have been trying to put together a consistent timeline of history, but new findings make it difficult to keep that consistency for long. History, although it belongs to the past, is very much alive, and it changes with new archaeological discoveries.”
“A skull unearthed in Petralona Cave near Thessaloniki in Northern Greece is not a new discovery. It was found in 1959 or 1960, and at first, it was believed that this is an ordinary hominin skull, aged somewhere between 100.000 and 120.000 years. If this information was true, Petralona would fit right into the existing puzzle of the development of humankind. Since then, information surfaced that the remains might be 350.000-year-old while others claim that the skull is 700.000-years-old! This makes Petralona cave the oldest human settlement we know of. Another layer of mystery was added when a scientist claimed that the skull doesn’t belong to any of the hominin groups that migrated from Africa to the European continent. Where did Petralona men come from? When were they extinct? It remains unclear. However, this discovery entirely changes the timeline of the evolution of humankind.”
“Klarfeld summarizes that The Enuma Elish Epic predated the Hebrew Book of Genesis, and is the bases for the Genesis creation account. It is the originalcreation story that was transmitted orally from the Anunnaki. The Epic came to rest eventually in the form of seven cuneiform tablets.”