I’ll Sign Something When I’m Ready
So yeah, it’s all pretty fucked up, huh? And that ain’t the half of it. It just kept getting more and more fucked up, but you know, some dumb fifteen year old kid, what the hell does he know? Nothing – literally nothing. To be blunt, decades later it doesn’t make any more damn sense either. It’s all a big fucking mystery to me, but at least with some hindsight you can sort of at least see the outlines, kind of the basic shape of the story let’s say. In fact, it isn’t even really a mystery – the story has been told a million times before. People just don’t want to believe it, they just don’t want to sort of think of the ramifications of the thing. It is sort of like a car accident – it is the worst thing in the entire world, you take what precautions you can and just hope for the best, because there is nothing else you can do. But it is always sort of in the back of your mind – any day, any time, you could be killed or kill someone just taking a wrong turn on the way to work. That’s just life.
So I get sort of introduced to what I can only describe as some sort of “secret society” although it wasn’t even really all that “secret” to be blunt. It was always right there, in front of your face. If you knew the signs to look for – and they aren’t even really that subtle about it, to be perfectly blunt. It’s all just sort of implied I guess. I don’t know – don’t ask me, I don’t know shit about shit, as I’ve been telling everyone every chance I get for like a fucking year now. OK? It’s ain’t me, babe.
It’s like a cult, man.
So in any case, right after they snatch the Little Red Haired Girl, that kid Tony gets arrested for bringing a gun to school to shoot me, and Jenny and I run off and then get caught, that is when it starts. I mean I already told the story. So this kid is fucking staring at me, downtown, so I just walk up and say “hi?” I mean I’ve never been the most sociable person but I just figured he looked cool and it was obvious he was staring at me with some intention so what was I supposed to do?
And yeah this fucker first thing takes me to see his dad, and he didn’t even live with his dad. So that part was very much not an accident. I knew this guy for years and he saw his dad like once a year at Christmas – frankly even I could see how the “absentee father” thing kind off messed him up. He very much had a hang up about it, but who can blame him? I really just felt sympathy about that whole thing.
So his fucking dad is fucking interogating me like I’m some fucking terrorist or whatever. Um but I’m not a terrorist, I’m a fifteen year old boy. Fifteen, dude, think about how clueless your average fifteen year old boy is then add on the fact I’m dumb as a bag of bricks and there you have it.
Once – when I got sent back to school – some teacher lady even explained it. See – it was in the newspapers like every fucking year, at least once. Literally, the fucking Washington Post. I mean really they spelled it all out, but again, like the car accident thing, you just take your precautions and try to not think about it. So this lady, she’s like, yeah, think about it – look here, don’t think it’s a coincidence, look what is really happening.
I mean, she didn’t “know” but she could read and put two and two together. So actually I look back and thank her for sort of warning me, or trying to warn me, or at least trying to explain things a little bit.
But I mean, come on, I was fifteen. This stuff was so over my head even if I knew everything I would have probably just jumped right in anyway – I mean, I’ll totally admit the sex stuff, I mean, of course I was in – what fifteen year old boy wouldn’t be? At that age? I mean some gal is “letting” you do all sorts of stuff what are you going to do, say no? You can’t say no at fifteen – you don’t want to say no at fifteen, it’s all “yes yes yes.”
So I’m guessing it works like this: they introduce you to people they want to target, for whatever reason. They never really tell you anything, but it doesn’t matter, because people are the same all over. Like with that Army chick I introduced to my nephew. I figured all I had to do was introduce them and at their age, well, nature just takes its course. Boy meets girl, etc., it’s the oldest story in the world. It takes no great planning or foresight, you just stick them in the same room and everyone acts as expected.
I’m sorry and I being a little vague here? I’m not entirely sure what even to say or if I’m even allowed to say it, so yeah, fifteen – that summer – that place, (CENSORED) – well what can I say? It was an education I can say that.
Some parts are still quite hazy – like, how did that dude have his own fucking apartment? He had no parents? He was like an orphan or something, being raised in some kind of “program” and I get introduced to him and that place where they send over Debbie to, er, like “officially” take my virginity or whatever. Like “official” this time, “official all the way.” I mean – I was fifteen so it wasn’t really all that dramatic – you can imagine.
So they are sending all these gals and for whatever crazy reason giving me massive, massive amounts of drugs which of course I “share” with the kids I’m meeting.
If you think about it it makes perfect sense – if you are targeting people’s kids, you send a kid to “befriend” them. So like this guy’s dad, the kid wouldn’t have known much, just enough. “Oh, this family, oh those people, this guy, that woman.” Etc.
Smells like nothing
Back to Beatnik
And I want partner
A big shot rock star
She said yoo-hoo
A cold charisma
And I’m familiar
With the Kama Sutra
She said yoo-hoo
And I’ll sign something
When I’m ready
And I’ll kill someone
Hello, Steve? Are you there?
Hello? It’s me, I know you’re there
Come on pick it up I know you’re there
I can hear you!
She said yoo-hoo
Where You Waking Up Today?
Gotta say for what on the surface is boring as hell my heart races every time I open the damn laptop. Is my big mouth going to get me in trouble or is this whole thing just one big nothingburger misunderstanding? Is it this thing, or the other thing, or who the hell knows?
Not me – I don’t know shit about shit.
So when they snatched the Little Red Haired Girl Jenny and I panicked and ran. I mean it was stupid, but we were kids and scared out of our minds. You know we were going to run from the FBI, hide out in the woods until dark, then something something. I’ll be the first to admit I found the whole thing even frankly romantic and figured if Jenny and I were on the lam there would be plenty more of the intoxicating stuff Jenny used to “let” me do until she dumped me.
It was that kid – Tom – that motherfucker ratted us out. So right before French class – look you can’t make this up – Jenny like sneaks up to me in the hallway and whispers, “they know.”
I mean I felt like I was having a heart attack or something. I’m sitting through class sweating trying my best to just block it all out. It was like waiting for the executioner. And then the place is swarming with cops. I presumed looking for me. I thought I’d go to prison or something.
So Jenny and I, we just fucking ran. I mean I took her hand and we just ran through the parking lot, across the street, through the woods. I mean after a bit we stop, literally like under a tree, and she’s bawling her eyes out and I’m holding her. She is sobbing terrified her father is going to beat her. I’m trying to at least think rationally, like, how are we going to get money, where are we going to sleep, that sort of thing. But of course a terrified fifteen year old boy basically has no idea about anything so I was just telling her absurd things, anything I could think of to reassure her.
Frankly I was the pussy – I’m the one that gave us up eventually. She would have kept going, she wanted to, but come on? I was just doing what I thought was best, figured we’d have to face them eventually so may as well get it done with.
I mean, it actually wasn’t even as bad as we thought. They didn’t arrest us, I mean we got in a lot of trouble, but just not juvie thank god. Yet within six months it was a fucking political thing. I mean, obviously, we had no idea about any of this but let’s say the “establishment” – the local government in that area – they HATED us. I mean, for cultural reasons, for their own bureaucratic reasons, frankly for ethnic and racial reasons.
So they wouldn’t just let it drop – oh no. Every adult on every side used four scared teenage kids to fuck with their political enemies. People are scum.
What they did to Carrie? Fucking crimes against humanity. Jenny? Don’t know, never saw her or spoke with her again after I cowardly turned us in, the most shameful thing I’ve ever done in my life. At least we could have gone down fighting.
And the Little Red Haired Girl? Don’t know either. From what I was told it wasn’t good though.
Every new day that you start
Plans the minute you’re flagging your heart
Where you waking up today
My little runaway?
Every red eye that you cross
Makes the next feel serious
Where you waking up today
My little runaway?
Every silver shell that you crush
Will be enough
Where you gonna sleep today
My little runaway?
When you feel like everyone
Wants to kill the unicorn
Where you waking up today
My little runaway?
Be My Little Human Sacrifice
Let’s call this fiction. It’s a pretty weird story so I guess I’ll start it with one of the weirdest parts, the time I was asked to urinate on a man.
I’m telling you, you’ve never lived until you’re cuddling, post-coitus, with some Little Swiss Miss you picked up the night before and your crazy bitch of a roommate offers you two hundred dollars to piss on some faggot lying in your bathtub.
Of course I didn’t do it, and in fact was putting my pants on hunting around for a knife or baseball bat or something in case this got any uglier. I mean I knew what I was getting into with her and it was at least partially my fault because I started sleeping with Crazy Bitch a couple of weeks before. But I mean she had a boyfriend so whatever.
See, the weirdest part of being a CIA mind controlled zombie slave is all the sex stuff. That is also the best part. My life with the thrill kill cult you could even say.
I had gone to this book club thing with frankly the specific purpose of finding some cute hipster girl and Little Swiss Miss was that girl. It was some political book and I was good as this – regurgitating lefty horseshit – that I had picked from working with Big Boobies. So there was me, little Swiss Miss, this guy, and the homely girl. I’m just nailing it and this guy sees Little Swiss Miss slipping out of his grasp and leaves. It took a while but the homely girl eventually gets the message and leaves too.
I tell Little Swiss Miss, “give me your number, we’ll go get coffee” which, roughly translated, meant, “Do what I say and I will make you come so hard you won’t be able to walk home.” I’m guessing she understood perfectly.
The next day or something I take her to this little place where you get a private room and sit down on little couches for an extra fifty bucks. Hell it’s cheaper than a call girl, and drinking and sex help you forget, however temporarily, bad things.
So after dinner I just walk back to the apartment with her tagging along beside me, smiling and chatting. I lead her through the four doors it takes to get to my bedroom, the front door, the other front door, the apartment door and my bedroom door. When inside she just sort of lies back on my bed and the fun begins. Use your imagination, this isn’t erotica.
So we’re in there and Crazy Bitch comes home and just starts talking and then walks right in. I tell her, get out, but she sits down on the bed – Little Swiss Miss is like hiding under the blanket – and I tell her, get out, and she finally notices and says, “oh I didn’t know you had someone here.” She leaves – she walks right out of the apartment and slammed the door – she was pissed. Anyway I apologize to Little Swiss Miss for the crazy roommate, we finish each other off and fall asleep.
That’s when she shows up with the faggot she wants me to piss on for two hundred dollars. Who the hell knows where she got him. Little Swiss Miss is still asleep and she is knocking on the door, talking through it, and says something like, “well I have someone over too. If your lady friend want to make some money, he’s in the bathtub now. Or if you want he’d probably pay extra – he just wants someone to piss on him.”
Look I call her Crazy Bitch for a reason, ok? And I never even really suspected her of anything until she starts taking vacations to tourist hotspots like the West Bank. Yeah – uh-huh. This broke bitch is flying to fucking Germany and Palestine? I mean she was neither Arab nor Jewish. I mean I could see her sleeping with some rich tech guy in Tel Aviv or something, but the West Bank? And then she and the woman she’s with get interrogated by the fucking Israeli Defense Forces under suspicions of practicing journalism?
If that isn’t fucking spooky what the hell is?
Man for a while there – in fact, right after I bounced NYC – these Israelis were all up my ass. Again, I assume the decoy thing was working perfectly on them. When I was in Bumfuck, this one couple was always bumping into me and being a little too friendly for the circumstances. They said they were from Brazil but the guy had a stereotypical Israeli first name – Ari. Ari from Brazil. OK, whatever. This fabulous international couple are hanging out in redneck bars in Bumfuck and making friends with little old me. I mean, I even suspected it at the time. Although I thought it might have something to do with Whisperer and the governor’s lawyer whose property I was living on at the time. The governor’s lawyer who got busted for smuggling cocaine from Colombia in his private plane. I mean, come on, any rich guy with a private plane is doing something nefarious.
Jesus Christ I mean I sound fucking spooky to myself – no wonder some people got the wrong idea.
I’ll turn you on like a tiger baby
Hard body motor city love life
I’ll take you for a ride down the midway baby
Be my little human sacrifice
Do my kisses burn?
Do they take your breath?
You’ve got a lesson to learn now
I’m the kiss of death
History is written by winner baby
So let’s make a little of our own tonight
If you’re thinking that my idea for fun is a drag
Then you’ve never been to paradise
I Know You Planned It
I don’t get why I couldn’t just walk away. Ten years later, I couldn’t just leave? Why in the world did they offer me that job up there, and why in the world did Windsailer eyeball me? I wasn’t doing anything even a little bit interesting.
There are thousands of witnesses, why me? Maybe it is because I never signed anything. They spent years paying people off. I just never got involved.
It sucks being in the Witness Intimidation Program.
And when that guy approaches Crazy Bitch, even she was suspicious. I mean I figured it out immediately, considering where his office was located. But I just played it cool for a while. He even asked me if I believe the government can control the weather. I thought right then and there he was fishing for what I thought about the thing.
So I ghost him pretty damn quick once I confirm he had ulterior motives of some kind. I mean, the job before, it was so obvious I was being paid for some ulterior motive. But I mean I wasn’t doing anything. I was not involved in any actvism, I never got involved in the lawsuits, I basically kept my mouth shut. I mean I told people I knew all about it, for a while there I’m sure people got bored.
Somebody out there thinks I know way more than I do. Somebody out there thinks I was doing something undercover I guess. I really feel my entire life has been one spooky psychological operation, although for what purpose who the hell knows. I’m not interesting, I have no particular special skills.
As far as who set me up? The last time I saw Angel’s boss was at the wedding – who knows maybe she was there at the time I wouldn’t have recognized her. I mean I did sort of tell this guy of my suspicions and his brother was really interested in talking about it. I just got drunk and skipped the after party. I was too depressed really.
What I want to know is who set up Catherine One. Or maybe I really don’t want to know.
I can’t stand it, I know you planned it
I’m gonna set straight, this Watergate
I can’t stand rocking when I’m in here
Cause your crystal ball ain’t so crystal clear
So while you sit back and wonder why
I got this fucking thorn in my side
Oh my God, it’s a mirage
I’m telling y’all it’s a sabotage
Our Little Secret
Come on please let me write this – it is a hell of a story isn’t it?
So yeah it was MK-Ultra – the CIA, literally the Central Intelligence Agency of the US government – drugged the fuck out of me when I was 15 years old, in what in hindsight was some sort of psychological whatever kind of thing. LOL – I mean, whatever, that’s life. I mean there’s nothing I can do about it now.
And I don’t really know anything – it’s just reading the newspapers and seeing who is currently running thing puts it all in context – please, understand, that is all I know. As I told Windsailer, my gimmick is simply connecting public dots – I mean anyone can figure it out.
So there I was, 16 years old, an “LSD dealer” – LOL. I mean I’m hanging out in the DC suburbs with a bunch of upper middle class kids whose parents were all fucking CIA. LOL – I mean it is so absurd. As far as I can tell, LSD – and all the crazy sex shit – is a very core part of what I’ve termed a “cult.”
That is one way they get assets to do shit for them, by putting them in a cult. I mean this is actually pretty well documented. The Children of God cult and Scientology in Hollywood, the “CIA Finders” of the 80s – remember the FBI’s official Twitter tweeted about that just last year. Maybe it was the FBI fucking with the CIA or whatever. That is some dark, dark shit. They kidnap kids and raise them like animals so they are easy to manipulate.
Nothing that bad ever happened to me – in fact I mean I’m probably susceptible in some ways to the fact it is interesting that it happened to me. I mean, it is more interesting than if I hadn’t been – LOL – drugged the fuck out of by the CIA when I was 15. I mean it is so absurd thinking about it.
And it’s so funny too – my sister, she was Army intel and her husband was some sort of something in SIGINT and his connection to 9/11 in DC is just as interesting as mine. He was doing one of those “drills” at the Pentagon the day of. His son told me all about it. My whole fucking family – it is so fucked up man.
So my sister – now look when she was young she was a very good looking lady – she never wanted for attention from men, I can tell you that. So she is what, sixteen? And people are coming up to her and her girlfriends – randomly, on the street – and handing them entire sheets of LSD.
For free, cause you know.
Here is the thing about drugs. If you want to make money on drugs, you sell coke, or meth, or heroin.
Nobody makes any money from LSD. The fact it is pushed so heavily is because it is a way to control people. It is not a coincidence the CIA has been drugging people with LSD since the 50s. It’s MK-Ultra.
Hey – it’s all on fucking Wikipedia. It ain’t me saying anything that isn’t public knowledge.
Obviously now, knowing who my friends – “friends” – were at that age puts it in perspective. And as far as public figures – again, please – I know nothing.
I mean, I can guess, but that is all it would be, a guess. I ain’t even interested in talking about (CENSORED) – please do not fucking kill me. I mean, really, I gotta kind of admit I’m being like a bit of a stalker here – I mean, it is fascinating to me that I have this tiny little connection to Angel.
I’ve read about her, she is fascinating. I mean I even think she is kind of hot – I did back in those days from what I can remember. And her choice of reading materials – oh wow, do I get it now. I mean, I didn’t at 17 obviously, but in hindsight. She is obviously brilliant – I have openly written my sexual fantasies about her wearing boots.
I mean, really, you guys should pay me to write her bio or whatever – I will say anything you want.
I mean – LOL – come on guys, what do you want from me? Please don’t kill me. Am I not allowed to have basically a crush on this public figure who I assume had a lot of impact – very indirect, to be sure, on my own life?
I mean I get all these people are fucking war criminals but I ain’t political. She’s the devil but I’m a bad guy too so whatever.
And I don’t really believe it was her who set me up. The whole 9/11 thing. I mean it isn’t impossible but I just don’t think I was of any importance to anybody. I think they just had me on a list, a guy they could always count on to do something stupid if they wanted.
I’m the ugly girl who got invited to the pig party – I’m the dupe, the idiot, the patsy, the fall guy.
I feel your deep devotion
Dive into my ocean
Drink some of my potion of love
Come quench my desire
Fill me up with fire
You know it’s never enough
Dance the dance of lovers
I don’t need no other
To ride the waves of pleasure and pain
Come on boy, obey me
Lick my boots to please me
Maybe I will loosen your chains
You need to be punished
And it will never finish
You are just a dog on a leash
Lick me baby lick me
Let me make you happy
But only if you’re begging me please
I can break your will
I can make you kneel
I can force you to crawl and to lick my heels
Cause the power is mine
Thank You For Not Killing Me
Thank you, spooks, for not killing me. I can still walk to the store without getting fucked with. See? This whole thing was just one big misunderstanding – as I told Windsailer, it’s a case of mistaken identity.
As far as I can tell, that dude outside the library on his phone was talking about me when he said, “oh, so it’s his roommate.” So that means two things:
- First, I spooked you spooks a lot. I can assure you, I never meant to do that. I mean, I love that movie with Brad Pitt trying to blackmail the former CIA analyst, it’s hysterical, but I was never, ever, under any illusion I had anything interesting enough to blackmail anyone – I do not. Especially nothing about Angel and (CENSORED) in (CENSORED) – as I have tried mightily to make clear to everyone, I know absolutely nothing about Angel that isn’t public knowledge on her Wikipedia page, and I have absolutely nothing but the most hazy memories of her and that place, (CENSORED).
- It’s actually reassuring that that is what they landed on – that dude – and not something to do with 9/11. I can never be sure which is going to get me in more trouble – 9/11 or the whole MK-Ultra-ing me when I was 15.
So yeah, beans are spilled. Angel’s boss – this dude’s dad – was almost certainly the guy who drugged the fuck out of me when I was fifteen. That is all I was saying. I mean it was him either behind the operation or him who decided to interrogate me and make me his son’s friend. That guy is dead, frankly I don’t even care anymore. And as far as his son, my friend, whatever I haven’t seen him in over a decade and really just wish him well and have zero interest in looking him up or anything. The past is the past.
I mean it is the story of my own life so obviously it is interesting to me – although I can’t really see how it is interesting to anyone else. Well, I guess I sort of can see why it would be interesting.
So please don’t kill me and please don’t scare me. Hell really I keep writing this shit because I’m hoping I’ll impress one of you people with my prose instead of having to write computer code again, although I obviously will if you make me.
I mean that is what they – the spooks – the “intelligence community” – that is what they do, they drug teenagers. Hey, it’s not even that different than what my old high school buddy got in Army boot camp. It’s all mind control. Although Army boot camp will put you in top physical condition while the CIA druggings will destroy your health.
You know it is so funny – so one of the most crazy fucked up things they did when they were threatening me for 72 hours straight is getting some dude to fuck with me in the Bethesda Maryland library.
Now this guy looked like an old homeless black guy – homeless people were not really even out of place at the Bethesda public library. This is the next day after they started it. This dude is literally standing in front of me and waving him arms up and down saying – “that dude is Jason Bourne – look over there, that dude is Jason Bourne!”
Now I did see that movie and whatever it was entertaining. But in some ways I would see it as propaganda. I suspect “they” would love – LOVE – to get their victims to think of themselves as cool heros like what’s his face in Jason Bourne. But I am not a cool hero – I’m a victim. They drugged the fuck out of me when I was fifteen years old, they basically institutionally kidnapped me, they subected me to brainwashing, they frankly perverted me sexually, they made it difficult for me to form stable relationships.
I was like a slave – chained. Yes, by my own vices – I’m not blaming the devil here, I made my own choices. But you know I was fifteen years old – literally a virgin with barely any hair on my chin. I had no idea what I was up against, and especially all the sex stuff – and the drugs – what fifteen year old boy can resist that level of temptation?
And for years they made me feel guilty about it, like I was a criminal. I mean in fact, now I see the whole FBI thing was just exploiting me. They set me up, they cajoled and coerced me to do illegal things, then threatened me for doing the things they made me do.
I mean, that’s all. I only had to spend two days in lock up for some stupid pot charge years ago. I mean, I can’t even really complain about the sex and drugs – I’m the bad guy, I fucking loved it. Nobody’s fault but mine. I ain’t blaming anybody.
But it is so fucking crazy – it is the fucking CIA, or even maybe the “Meta-CIA” – it’s organized crime.
Or maybe – I honestly don’t know – maybe it is the secret sex network. I’ve always said sometimes you can easily see the world as run by women sort of “behind the scenes.” I mean, men make a big show of killing each other in wars but women just sit back and make babies with the winners. Frankly that makes perfect sense to me, if I were a woman that would seem the most obvious logical choice.
Not Dead Yet
I mean it’s so crazy obviously no one would believe it anyway. If some guy told you he was drugged at fifteen and quasi-adopted by the CIA after being investigated by the FBI then did a bunch of weird shit until they sent him to the World Trade Center right before 9/11 you’d assume it’s schizophrenia.
But as far as I can tell that is the truth about my life. Or at least it isn’t entirely wrong.
Everyone is dead so it should be ok to talk about this. Yeah, 15, that would have been about the time my brother-in-law gets out of the Air Force and starts setting up satellite dishes in the jungles of Colombia. On his death bed he told my sister all about – he used this term specifically – “MK-Ultra.” It’s possible we both went through it at the same time but it seems far more likely they started on him as an airman.
In some ways the Little Red Haired Girl was the Eve to my Adam, she offered me the apple but I took the bite. What would be interesting to know is who was her handler, at that age presumably it was family or what might be termed “para-family.”
I can also understand, with thirty years of hindsight, why me and the people around me might have been targets of psychological research – some political shit – this was the 80s.
My sister, too, some of her stories are just as unbelievable.
So the Little Red Haired Girl – I mean she asks, she explains a bit, and then says we can do it next week. So being the dutiful nerd that I am, I go that very weekend to the library to look it up. I read two specific books about it, and what was so unexpected is I was expecting to read about “hippies” but instead the whole beginning of the story is about “the CIA.”
Then, afterward, after the FBI, the spooks show up. I call it “quasi-adoption.” So from fifteen to – shit, until the fucking day of 9/11 itself – all my friends were fucking spooks. I both knew and didn’t know. Like I knew that one gal was going to work for NSA, even though she never said it specifically. I knew my brother-in-law was some kind of spook. I knew this one kid’s dad was a spook. But frankly it didn’t seem particularly remarkable as everyone works for the government or the military.
I have been told recently by a source I trust that they – the spooks – are very particular about who their agents and assets marry, and in hindsight I can discern a pattern of interference in my personal relationships.
In fact, I think they left me alone after I almost married Nature Girl. Even though Nature Girl’s dad was some sort of something in the fucking Navy so who the hell knows. I know that Nature Girl and this dude hated each other. But I figured that was just a typical thing. It’s when Nature Girl and I broke up – and I bounced – disappeared – that is when this dude shows up again.
Oh yeah right after I get hired to throw parties for the Chinese ambassador.
Yeah so that summer, at 15, after the Little Red Haired Girl and the FBI, I get a brand new best friend. Now I don’t want to be too suspicious here, this guy was only two years older than me, so he’s I guess 17. 17 year old boys can only have so much of an ulterior motive and I can’t imagine he knew anything – although it is entirely possible he was told something about me before we met. In fact I remember him using two little psychological tricks all the time.
I mean, as far as I can tell, we were friends. He was like a cool older brother. But in hindsight, knowing what his dad did and the timing, I gotta say, it looks pretty damn suspicious.
Like I said, not quite a gang initiation, not quite a fraternity hazing, more like some sort of cult thing. Only in hindsight do I understand the very obvious psychological conditioning I was undergoing, if all quite indirectly.
So now it is obvious his dad knew about my brother-in-law – I doubt he did though. So really it was a whole Truman Show type thing – they were watching but I didn’t know they were. From what I can tell whatever special interest they had in me was due to the Little Red Haired Girl and the FBI. Or the similarities of appearance – I know they do that shit, they have “doubles” – “decoys” – they even wanted my dad to do that once.
So, yeah, it’s MK-Ultra.
But I mean – Burning Man is MK-Ultra. But also Burning Man is spooky as fuck.
Anyway my brother-in-law is dead, this guy’s dad is dead, all this shit happened thirty fucking years ago so it is not a threat to anyone. I would never blow someone’s cover, I would never name names, and I don’t really know anything. If that dude was a spook – it’s entirely possible now that I think about it – I sure as hell have no interest in blowing his cover or anything.
But it is all fucking crazy.
I can say this – he was the first one to call me when it happened. He sounded honestly scared and concerned about me. In fact he said some shit when I first told him I was moving and going to work there.
I mean, nobody knows everything but I bet he knew something.
But then he gives my number to The Journalist – hey it’s all in the family with this cult – who wants to interview me. Shit they would have made me a star. But of course I said, fuck no.
I mean Crazy Bitch and I would go to “political” parties all the time for the open bars, but I was more or less as low profile as I could get. Other than snorting coke and talking to football players in random bars I never really said anything.
What was there to say? It’s obvious what happened – it is obvious now and it was obvious then. But no one wanted to believe it.
There’s a stranger in my eyes again
I swear to God I don’t know him
You’re tired of me
I’m tired of you
So turn around and leave me to myself
You got holes in your clothes
And booze on your breath
You look like hell
And you smell like death
I’ve been out way too long
Heading right for the edge
If she asks about me
Tell her I’m not dead yet
It was ten years ago I started to figure it out. I had left NYC and was visiting mom and pop, and pop was going through his old files and handed me the newspaper article – about me, about the Little Red Haired Girl, Jenny and Carrie. We weren’t named because we were minors.
Then in an unfortunate coincidence, right about this time there is an article about Angel, and I immediately recognized her, and the (CENSORED) in (CENSORED) and I started thinking this shit can’t all be a coincidence. That was the first time I wrote a line that would become my calling card:
“Angel introduced me to BDSM.”
Of course I was using her real name because the newspapers did. I really didn’t think anybody would care – it is not like I was ever some super popular writer or anything – and I even did a whole bit about parallel construction because I didn’t say anything that wasn’t in the newspaper article.
It was that whole crowd really – I guess. That was the thing, right after the incident with the Little Redheaded Girl and the FBI, that is when I was introduced to that crowd. Literally, Angel would hand a book to this dude who would read it and then hand it to me. I was told, “she works for my dad.”
But officially Angel wasn’t doing that. It’s stupid, everyone knows all these people are lifers, they get on in college if they aren’t born on the chain. So the people that matter, the professionals, the people paid to find out these things, they already know. But they have to keep up the pretense for whatever reason.
So I had been hinting this stuff for years – it was my regular gimmick. If I was born in LA I’d be telling stories about seeing Britney Spears flash her hoo-ha while drunk at a nightclub. But DC? It’s Hollywood for ugly people so you get stories about the unlikely reading material of the Deep State.
The media love to use that word for Angel – “unlikely” – in a manner I assume is a tell the exact opposite is the truth.
I mean – really – it is all spelled out in the newspaper article from ten years ago – you don’t even need to read between the lines, just read the lines in the book mentioned. In fact, it’s all on fucking Wikipedia.
So it can be on Wikipedia but if I write about it, I’m getting death threats? It is a crazy world out there.
I was happily writing away for a decade on many controversial topics. I guess maybe doing that podcast for the 20th anniversary of the thing was a bit too much for whoever is babysitting me. I did get a couple of high quality readers and commentators from that appearance, and maybe that was the problem.
Interestingly, the follow up podcast a year later was cancelled at the last minute and that is when it started I guess. That is when Windsailer contacts me, that is when I get an advance for a book, and start getting email from a guy who seems to want me to believe he is FBI counter-intelligence.
Um – guys, I think there is a case of mistaken identity here. I am really not that interesting. There is absolutely zero reason that anyone on the chain should care about me one way or another.
So when Windsailer called I took down a bunch of articles I thought might have been a little too spicy, let’s say. But then months went by and I guess I started using her name again.
Only this time I was accusatory. People don’t get to the top of the chain by being nice upstanding citizens – they get there by being more ruthless than anyone else.
Don’t take my word for it – read Wikipedia, read the newspaper articles, read the book. That book may as well be the instruction manual for imperialism, modern and ancient. It is military doctrine dressed up as a dirty book for bored housewives.
Believe me, I would love to tell you more, but I’m not allowed to. I can’t tell you the book, I can’t tell you the article, because when I did they literally sent goons to accost me on the street.
I admit it I was on a tear – an article a day for four days. I was just about to tell the story of the Texas Honeypot. I’m literally sitting in the Starbucks typing the next chapter when all of a sudden …
It’s hard to explain this because it’s quite subtle and it all works on plausible deniability. Two guys walk into the Starbucks and one of the guys comes up to my table and asks me about the laptop I’m using. Except he wasn’t friendly about it. In fact, he was glaring at me. Then he kept looking back at me in a menacing manner. His partner makes a really big show of using what looks like a police radio to say something like, “we’ve identified the target.”
These guys weren’t cops.
It took me a minute, but the implications were obvious. I had been “made” – identified. More importantly, they – someone – took the time to send goons out to get my attention and send me a message.
I mean, that cost some bureaucrat a budget entry – threatening a nobody like me is worth a line item? You have got to be kidding. Maybe these spooks aren’t what they used to be.
But really, I have been racking my brains for any reason why anything I know would be interesting to anyone. I don’t know anything. I could speculate some interesting things but that is all it would be, speculation.
But for whatever reason I have, in fact, made a study of the chain since, well, since literally the weekend before the incident with the Little Red Haired Girl. Irony – not seeing what is right in front of your face, I would read about it then tell what I read to my friends who never bothered to tell me they were, in fact, the chain.
I’m the fish that doesn’t notice water.
Also I suspect the decoy thing has made many people think I’m one of them. So somebody who is paid to watch for people using certain names probably looked into my file and I’m guessing it is a lot more interesting that one might think.
In any case, my little writing hobby is not worth being threatened over so I took it all down, immediately, and figured I’d email Windsailer and the FBI guy and the sponsor and try to figure out what happened.
But who knows maybe that was a mistake – it didn’t stop them, in fact, for the next 72 hours I was fucked with like you wouldn’t believe.
Telling me I was being a bad little monkey.
So really, the incident with the Little Red Haired Girl, that crowd, that guy, even Crazy Bitch, it is all connected – and connected to the thing, the event, that put me in the Witness Intimidation Program.
I know Windsailer is reading, I know the spook psychologist is reading, and a handful of other hand selected people. They know who I am, they know where I am, and who some of these fictional characters are not.
But I am not saying anything I haven’t said for ten years – if I really knew anything interesting I would have written it years ago – in fact, I did – it is all out there – what little beans I had are already spilled.
So really there is no reason to kill me, or scare me, or to bother with little old me at all. I’m just not worth it. I’m sure these professionals have far more interesting things to do than fuck with me. I am sure they didn’t imagine being a big time Chain guy would entail fucking with random nobodies like me – that sounds terribly boring. I wouldn’t wish that on anyone.
It’s not like the old days, when they would send all these hot chicks to seduce me – I liked that part. The pay was good, too. But now? It shows just how far down the chain I’ve fallen that the last honeypot they sent didn’t even sleep with me, she just roofied me and left.
Because there are chainies in every city in America, you are always within reach.
But again – what I don’t get – what the hell do they want with me?
Oh, right, the whole witness thing. The crime of the century.
Strange You Never Knew
Hey – I can be topical.
Ellie was from Ukraine – Odessa. I worked with her right up until the thing, and what she told me, before and after, well? It’s all been said by a lot of people. It’s on the record. It’s on video. It’s been printed. But no one wants to talk about it. Hell, William Rodriguez said the same thing, and he received several awards for rescuing so many people, he’s been on TV several times over the years, but they ignored – censored – everything he said that didn’t fit the narrative. He even testified, but in private, like the vast majority of people who testified. I guess they couldn’t risk him testifying in public. He might say the “wrong” thing.
Ellie was maybe sixty and she had just become a grandmother so of course her desk was filled with pictures of her adorable little tow-headed grandson. She still had a bit of an accent. I quite liked her. She was, in fact, the third person from Ukraine I’ve worked with.
The first Ukrainian I worked with was at the job right after the China Project, in fact, I still knew Tiny when I started working with him. I kind of considered him my “mentor” in a lot of ways – a technical mentor. It was that place, working with him, where I first met Fiancée.
Of course I had no idea – not a clue – that my boss on the China Project was Chain – not until years later did it become obvious. In fact, he wanted me to become his protégé. Frankly, he was giving me a great opportunity, a promising career, when I was right out of college. But I was too young, too immature, and too rough around the edges to do what he expected of me. I think he was kind of pissed at the end, but I just didn’t understand these things – I just was not from that culture, not from that class.
So after the China Project I got a regular job at this start up type thing, and I liked that job. When they first hired me on, there was a bunch of red tape at HR, due to complex and rather boring details I won’t get into. My boss, who hired me, was this hot-headed Mexican-American trust fund baby who stumbled into this job – no shit – because the head of the department met him when he was slumming it as a bartender at a strip club. You can’t make it up.
So I’m having all of these problems with paperwork at HR, and my boss was eager to get me started, because it was a tight labor market, and me, the naïf, wasn’t asking for a lot of money. So after a bunch of delays he says, “follow me,” and I trail behind him as he leads me over to the HR department, where he proceeds to tear a new one into the manager. Eventually, he leaves, and the manager, annoyed, pawns me off on Fiancée.
She was new, just like me, and after watching her boss get yelled at, as she told me later, she thought I must be “important.”
She is quite pretty, in a very conventional, feminine way. Blonde haired, blue eyed Irish lass. As I am sitting next to her at her desk, I notice she is a little nervous.
I guess it was the damsel in distress thing – it was charming, the vulnerability. So I lay on the charm. I say, “oh don’t worry about him, he’s always like that, it’s really no big deal” and I give her a little smile. She smiles back and I see her relax a bit. So she’s doing the paperwork and I just keep making little ironic comments, trying to calm her, make her comfortable, and she would smirk and even giggle a bit. I even thought she was being a bit flirtatious toward the end – I certainly was. So when she sends the email saying everything was good, I made sure not just to email her back thanking her, I actually call her on the phone to thank her, doing the same little ironic jokes routine, and she responded in kind.
The next day I make sure to find an excuse to walk by her desk and thank her personally, and give her a big smile, and she gives me an even bigger one back.
I really liked this crowd, I fit in perfectly. This one woman there, Karen, was always big on getting our department to go out after work. I don’t remember – I may have done it myself, or I may have conspired with Karen, but somehow she got invited to go out after work with us. I made sure to sit next to her, and I made sure I was wearing my cool leather jacket. At this point I wasn’t even hiding it, I was flirting, somewhat outrageously. She was into it, she was laughing at all my jokes, we would sort of whisper to each other, conspiring, as everyone else is talking.
Whatever, I was just really confident about it. So as the night is winding down, I ask her out. “Hey, I had fun. Why don’t you give me your number and we’ll go out sometime?” She smiles shyly and says, “ok,” and I put her number in my phone. Believe it or not, most people did not even have cell phones in those days, but I did.
I call her the next day and ask her out for Friday. She told me later, she was with a bunch of her girlfriends and they were all doing the bit, saying “awww” and giggling while they listened to her take my call – it made her a little embarrassed but also excited – she was worried I might have heard them in the background.
We meet downtown and I take her to this fancy place, then I take her to some show or something, I don’t remember. It all goes quite smoothly – she still seems a bit nervous, and I’m a bit nervous, but I just go for it, I was feeling quite confident. We’re sitting on the curb during the intermission and one of those photographer guys comes up and offers to take our picture and gives us two copies. I’m not even lying, we looked like Julie Delpy and Ethan Hawke in Before Sunrise – Crazy Bitch always said I looked like him.
So the first kiss, right after we got the picture, well it was all quite smooth, it felt quite natural. We go back in and finish the show, walk for a bit, and I invite her back to my place. I expected her to decline, but she said yes, so we get a cab. At my place I pour us some wine, we kiss and start making out.
She didn’t want to put out on the first date, and I, always the gentleman, didn’t even really try – didn’t even really want to in a sense, as I thought it might be weird, it might mess something up, she might regret it, and I was already making longer term plans.
So I guess around ten I call her a cab – but it never comes. We’re lying in my bed – fully clothed – and both of us are dozing off. Maybe eleven I call again – still they don’t come. I have to call a third time and finally one shows up at like one in the morning. I put her in the cab and tell her I’ll call her Saturday afternoon, which of course I did.
The next day she takes me out with her girlfriend to something or other, and her girlfriend is sort of teasing her, obviously having been informed in detail about out inadvertent late night together, making all sorts of jokes; “am I the only one who feels a little tired from being out so late last night?”
I guess it was maybe a week and a half later, after we had gone out four or five times, and spent every day secretly flirting at work, I’m just blunt. I ask her to spend the weekend with me at the most expensive hotel in town. I figure our first time should be really nice. In a crazy coincidence, that very weekend, President Bill Clinton was staying at that very hotel, so there were literal snipers on the roof and crazy security, which just added to the excitement.
It was great, it all just felt so smooth and so romantic. And after that – I don’t even know how it started. As soon as we got to work, she would send me an email first thing in the morning with one word: a color. Pink. Yellow. Blue.
Then, about ten thirty every morning, we would go out to smoke a cigarette. We would keep a neutral demeanor, get in the elevator, and as soon as the elevator door closed, I would just grab her and pull up her skirt to verify the color of her panties: pink, yellow, blue. She would squeal with delight and we would passionately kiss. We’d go around the corner to this semi-secluded spot and make out like teenagers. She was always smiling and always laughing at my jokes. Really, the whole thing just made me high, I could not have been happier.
So maybe a month of this, and this guy, my mentor, the Ukrainian guy, he rolls his eyes at me and says, “hey, if you’re going to make out with your girlfriend, do it in a more secluded spot – I totally saw you two.” I was a little bit embarrassed – well, not really, I guess I was kind of proud.
Of course these things never stay secret and when my boss found out – probably Karen told him – he accuses me – half seriously, half not – of dipping my pen in the company ink to get all that HR paperwork done and set myself up for a raise.
I don’t remember how long it lasted but it wasn’t too long until the company went out of business – it was the crash, all those companies went out of business. This was when the first sign of trouble started. Two things.
She takes me to a party, and I’m just casually talking to this guy and say, “oh, I’m with Fiancée, do you know her?” He gives me a look and says, “oh yeah I know her.” It was a little bit embarrassing, because the obvious implication was that they had dated. No big deal really, but when I mentioned it and said I wish she had told me, she was all apologetic like, but not even really a big deal.
The second was potentially more serious – but it didn’t really have anything to do with her – it had to do with the guy, my roommate. This Chain motherfucker, ever since I was fifteen, was always trying to get into my personal life. He starts making comments about hearing us doing it in my bedroom, almost like hazing me about it, making comments about how loud she was – or wasn’t. How long it seemed to last. Asking questions I frankly had no interest in answering. “Teasing” me in a way that was plausibly deniable – in a very macho way, trying to be dominant, like he was judging me or something.
In fact, over the years, this guy would constantly half-jokingly suggest we do a threesome with some girl, or fuck two girls in the same room – he actually said that, “we should like do something in the same room.” At some point I even wondered if this guy was like “bisexual” or something – and who knows, maybe he was. But of course what was really going on is this Chain motherfucker wanted to get something on me – something embarrassing, something scandalous – that he could use as leverage against me. I didn’t figure it out until ten years later, the last time I saw him, when he low-key threatens me: “I know about you.”
After the place goes out of business we go to Europe, and I’ve already mentioned it. Something had changed, all of a sudden I didn’t feel so confident that she was really into me. It’s not that she was faking it, but it is like she was playing a role or something. That she was acting as she thought I expected her to act.
So this is what is going through my head when I’m in New York talking to Ellie and she tells me she is from Ukraine. I tell her about my mentor, and Fiancée, who at that point I still expected to eventually move with me to New York. Her hesitation I thought might be that she was waiting for me to officially propose. I was getting cold feet, frankly, not because I had any hesitation – I knew it would work on my end, I was way into her. But I started to have doubts about how much she was really into me.
So one day I’m looking out the windows and Ellie comes up next to me and says, “oh great view, isn’t it?” I say, “yes it is amazing. But have you noticed all these new police trucks out there? There is even some sort of military vehicle parked over there, see?”
“I wonder if there is some sort of terrorist threat or something.”
I mention the whole security badge thing that had just happened, a huge massive reset of all the security procedures.
Ellie’s face darkens and her eyes go wide. She says, “oh, don’t say that! I was here when that happened last time. You’re scaring me.”
She proceeds to explain the time the place got bombed back not quite a decade prior. She really did look nervous talking about it, she told me the whole story, where she was, what happened. I try to calm her, reassure her, “oh I’m probably just being paranoid.”
I want to hold the hand inside you
I want to take a breath that’s true
I look to you and I see nothing
I look to you to see the truth
You live your life, you go in shadows
You’ll come apart and you’ll go blind
Some kind of night into your darkness
Colors your eyes with what’s not there
A stranger’s light comes on slowly
A stranger’s heart without a home
You put your hands into your head
And then its smiles cover your heart
Fade into you
Strange you never knew
Fade into you
I think it’s strange you never knew
Such A Strange Numb
It was August. I’m at the mall in the basement of the buildings – it’s huge. I walk into the Barnes & Noble bookstore, to buy a book. I was being a bad customer because I was taking my time. I was limiting myself to one book.
Eventually I decide to buy James Bamford’s book on the National Security Administration, Body of Secrets: Anatomy of the Ultra-Secret National Security Agency. It had just been published in April of that year.
I knew all about the NSA. Growing up, I heard the dad joke constantly – “no such agency, am I right? Har, har!” I thought of the NSA as the Special Forces for computer nerds. A little bit older, I came to think of the NSA as a tribe of surprisingly attractive people with waterfront mini-mansions and sexually voracious daughters. One gal I knew from high school – she was a math genius – went to work for them right out of high school, they apparently put her through college. I once wrote a song about her, but we never hooked up because she was dating a guy I was in a band with.
So over the next week I read the book – it’s really fascinating. One thing is quite odd about the book, it has an appendix that has nothing to do with the NSA. It’s called Operation Northwoods, a Pentagon proposal to stage a “false flag” attack against America to be blamed on Cuba, giving the Kennedy administration an excuse to invade and overturn Castro’s communist government.
Among other acts of terrorism, the Pentagon proposed hijacking airplanes and flying them into buildings – to include remote controlled military planes painted to look like civilian airliners. They proposed both actually killing people – actually killing Americans – as well as staging fake deaths including fake funerals.
Apparently, Kennedy refused the plan and demoted the general who proposed it, General Lyman Louis Lemnitzer. Researchers have often noted that the language in the document appears to be more British English than American English; for example, it uses the phrase “go on holiday” which is what Brits say; Americans say “go on vacation.”
The document is from 1962 and as nothing to do with the NSA – it’s a Pentagon document – so it was weird that Bamford included it in his book on NSA. Some have speculated that Bamford was working with General Michael Hayden, at the time Director of the NSA, and the only man to ever head up both the NSA and CIA, and it may have been him that gave the document – which has never been released before – to Bamford.
Now I had just gotten the job. It paid great, I working in what to me was a quite prestigious place in a very promising job. I was living in Manhattan, living it up dating all these different women and just generally having a blast.
So one day, late August I think, I decided to treat myself to lunch at the “sky view” restaurant at the top of the building. Anytime I go to a city I always love to go to those “sky view” places because, well, the views. And this one was the best of all. You could almost see the curvature of the earth.
I even order a martini – I’m playing it up like I’m the Wolf of Wall Street. I mean, really, I felt like I had “arrived.”
And more importantly, to me, I felt like I had finally escaped the Chain. As far as I knew, this job had nothing to do with them.
So I am up there, for lunch, enjoying the view – the amazing view. Sipping my martini, feeling quite proud of myself. I was thinking all sorts of things, but the Bamford book was just sort of in the back of my mind.
Now I have never put much stock in coincidences or premonitions. I still don’t. But I’m looking out the windows and the thought just pops into my head. “Holy shit, could you imagine if a plane flew into here? It would be like something out of a movie!”
I get all numb
When she sings it’s over
Such a strange numb
And it brings my knees to the earth
So God bless you all
For the song you saved us, oh
For the hearts you break
Every time you moan
God bless you all on the earth