“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.”
“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.’
“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.”
March 21, the morning of the ‘kill shot.’
Amidst the forlorn late morning fog in the cold March climate in the hills and ravines of Saint Albans, jutted on cliffs of the Missouri River, behind the mangled branches of towering oak, maple and the suffocating bulks of uncultivated evergreen trees, stands a 40-million-dollar-plus 20-room-mansion. The structure lies one mile from a massive estate-gate laced with the latest reconnaissance and voice recognition technology. The 15-acre estate is shorn of the springtime horticulture that long-ago laced and decorated the citadel. The domain smothers beneath woodlands hiding the cruel, Gothic face that was once a healthy and happy Manor. The House of Boxenwolf rejected the name of Watson in the 70s and took on the coat of arms and family crest of Boxenwolf on the same property. The Boxenwolf emblem hangs menacingly above the substantial 3-inch thick mahogany front door with its stiles and panels bulleted by a 19th-century snarling wolf-head door knocker.
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 lotyou 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.’”