“…a fall of 75 feet or more onto a hard surface…bridges will serve.”
—CIA Assassination Manual, 1952

Recall that the FBI is (among other things) the domestic arm of the intelligence community. When CIA has a problem on American soil, it is supposed to ask for FBI’s aid in dealing with it. Leaks, for example. Allegations of connections between the antiwar movement and terrorist organizations. We saw an example of that in the Twin Cities when FBI raided the homes of several protestors and there was a resulting protest in front of their building on Washington Avenue.

Whistleblower Coleen Rowley showed up. A local NPR affiliate was there along with some some other news outlets.

I recognized a few faces from various political functions (including the visit of then-DNC chairman Governor Tim Kaine at Rep. Keith Ellison’s office during the midterm elections in 2010). Then there was “Magnus”, a war protestor who was assaulted by assailants unknown in a manner not unlike the unsolved attack on Dan Rather. Magnus is not his real name, that was the name he took when he decided the fight for peace was not worth the personal pricetag attached and became sort of “religious” via yoga and spiritualism. I had seen Magnus at many of the events I attended.

This is the return of the old MHCHAOS program, where the Nixon administration sought proof and the aid of the intelligence community in linking the war protest movement to the USSR and/or the Chinese. The hilarious theater that took place in the Nixon White House included CIA refusing for some time before agreeing even though they were already doing it before being asked to do so (the excuse: Hoover refused and/or dragged his feet about doing what they asked so they had to handle it themselves on American soil followed by blaming the Huston Plan. See the pattern? It’s always someone else’s fault, even when they act unilaterally. If caught, they just shift the lie to another narrative.

The result: not a single real connection found, CIA field personnel resentful of being asked to spy on Americans, and no accountability resulting in having to relive it today where radical fundamentalism has replaced the “Red Scare” and McCarthyism.)

Previous to those raids, there were the problems surrounding the “RNC Eight” and many other protestors arrested during the 2008 RNC convention in St. Paul. One such person was Dan. Dan had been arrested, the charges had been dropped, and he went to work for the Census. Not long after being there, he was fired because of his arrest at the RNC.

The details below detail how I met him and what happened. Keep in mind, I believe he was being blackmailed/coerced by the FBI into being an informant. Of course, that’s not really the correct term. FBI was attempting to get people like Dan to entrap other people. That was what prompted my brunch with Pheobe (well, that plus seeking an end to the harassment).

An additional technical detail about these kinds of operations (one that I’ve touched on before) is that the operatives frequently add non-operatives to their group as cover. It adds color to the camouflage. Makes them seem more like what the are trying to pretend to be. So, one or two operatives add one or two people to their number who either know nothing about the goal of the operation or only know a very limited amount about it. They may be given disinfo about the intended target so as to get them to go along with a particular plan of action that is either illegal, harmful to the target, or both. So, the “camouflage” can also serve as a patsy should there be charges filed.

Here we have an organization (the FBI) being told who-knows-what about me by some other member(s) of the intel community who in turn attempts to engineer what they think they know about me into a series of traps. And it didn’t end there despite having avoided the traps and attempted to do the right thing.

What I’m detailing below is more akin to COINTELPRO than anything else.


It is very late on June 11 or very early on 12, 2010 and I’ve gone out because of some impulse to do so.

The past two weeks have been among the strangest and toughest up to this point. Besides fighting multiple delusions planted there by repeated voice-to-skull and psy ops, the parties responsible spent ten days straight “beating” me up via V2S to suggest something I know is not true. Though generally the sessions lasted only a hour and a half or so, you spend the rest of the day attempting to sleep off the emotional fatigue and unf*** your head from what they’ve been filling it with. This is brainwashing, or “brainhacking.” Finding the “firewall” that works for you in this situation is key. (See the MKULTRA Survival Guide tag posts for ideas on that).

They tried and tried to get me to buy off on the lie that the entire Squidgate situation was a publicity stunt coordinated by the accused and a friend of his who runs a news website. Although I knew and know there is no way this is the case, it didn’t help that something had been going on on the other end. Clear to me now, they had been pitting us all against each other.

They started pushing the disinfo almost two weeks previous to this evening in June. Every day, they pushed and pushed for me to contact authorities with that bulls*** explanation (that could not explain why Kate Conway’s home was burnt to the ground and the seeming cause being three relatives of the primary Squidgate accuser much less the overabundance of cloak-and-dagger bulls*** i witnessed–and not what it really was: an operation by one or more of our intelligence organizations.)

A probable assassination attempt in February of 2011 will prove that their explanation was a lie, that my instincts were correct. It was tiring fighting it off, though, and I knew I could not hold out forever. There had to be a way to seem to satisfy the growingly impatient cockroaches pushing the deception and yet not actually doing what they were prompting me to do. In the meantime, before figuring out what that would be, I set arbitrary deadlines for myself, held out until I had examined a particular hypothesis a but further a few days later. Once those were exhausted, it was time to try something else.

I started an argument via email with P****. I waited to see what the reaction would be locally. It was obvious that there would be one. They wanted this too badly to leave it there.

Ten or fifteen minutes after the end of the email exchange I “heard” via V2S: “Yeah! Retribution!” and my iPhone had an “error” and skipped from whatever was playing to a track actually called “Retribution” (a free download from the makers of EVE Online, a good scifi space opera game, has some great music). I could practically feel the cockroach’s relief after having beat me up for ten days to do something along these lines and I had resisted for so long. (I don’t know if this iPhone is “special” or not, just that it’s predecessor got pickpocketed the Wednesday night–actually early the Thursday morning–before the Squidgate trial). (These events, the email war and the iPhone psy ops, wound up setting up the Juneteenth nonsense where, presumably, the democratic dirty tricks squad thought they’d get me running over to them since I’d been cut off from pretty much every other human being I knew that I’d have any interest in remaining in contact with. The problem with assuming I would do that, of course, is me wondering then who exactly it was arranged that the situation in the first place. Too convenient and I really don’t like how any of these people treat their “slaves”.)

There had been the crossing of another bridge (under construction) some time in May. The reasons for doing so make no sense whatsoever unless you’re having your head mucked with in a major way. It was the result of intense and frequent psy ops coupled with being drugged and really trying very hard to find out why all of this was happening.

So, there was little surprise when three young men walked straight up to me and asked me to join them. Something had to happen, this was it. Walter was first to approach and speak. He was a thin 24 year old gay man. He immediately noted the button I wore on my jacket with a keen sense of irony (I HEART BRIDGES). (Said irony resulting from the Blue Water Bridge connecting Port Huron to Sarnia, the other bridge I had just crossed weeks before and, I wasn’t aware of it yet, but the quote at top). It was obvious this was the “reply” to the provocations.

The three of them were all rather slight in build and I didn’t feel the least bit threatened physically as a result of that.

Walter and I traded banter back and forth most of the evening. He seemed to be the ringleader, but I would discover later (at a party) that Dan was probably a lot smarter.

Jared and Dan were dating. Jared was also 24, Dan was 20. They had played D&D and utilized at times The Book of Erotic Fantasy, an unofficial (sometimes contentious) supplement to spice the game up for amorous couples, lonely nerds, and dirty-minded teens. This was interesting because I had at one time been a player, a playtester, and friend of a few game designers. We had largely interacted on Yuku (a messageboard system) which replaced EZBoard. (EZBoard was hacked in 2005. FBI believed, they said, that a former employee was responsible. Given some of our discussions of topics like Plamegate, Iraq, and climate change, I have some other theories). That gaming supplement had come up more than once on the boards.

Walter also took some glee in telling me about how he had been disappointed on his birthday when some people he expected did not show up. “Interestingly”, I had a similar experience in January of 2010 when we went to see Avatar and “we” wound up being several less than expected. (This is how your government and its private contractors f*** with American citizens. One party does the drugging while another follows up with the harassment. Separately, they probably have no individual legal problems. Together, it’s tantamount to premeditated murder, inciting a riot, or fomenting rebellion.)

The first stop on this evening’s crazy train was climbing under the Stone Arch Bridge which was why they claimed to be there in the first place. (Again, after I deliriously and recently crossed one under construction).

They asked me to join them in their climb. I declined. Walter even kissed me just before climbing over the railing and onto the ladder, but that didn’t change my mind. (In fact, the kiss was rather passionless…hard to find good help–though the vice versa can also be true). I told them I’d call 9-1-1 if they anyone fell. The bridge has a crawl space thingy on it’s belly. I also note that it’s Federal property (I’m reasonably certain, given that not long after I’d be handed a map of the area by the National Park Service).

After they reemerged from under the bridge on the other end of the crawl space, they told me about the social services that Minnesota has to offer. I had no idea those things would be available to me, so that was welcome advice (that in retrospect, to a small degree, reminds me of Laurence Olivier’s creepy performance in Marathon Man when he gives Dustin Hoffman’s character advice just before drilling into his teeth with the full knowledge that he’s going to have him killed once he gets the answer he wants… “Enjoy it. It’s the last time people won’t expect anything from you,” to “Is it safe?”). What prompted the conversation was Walter asking me if I had health insurance and the resulting bizarre silence that followed my answer in the negative.

Walter also told me that if I saw lights in the nearby flour mill ruins that that was their group. About a month after these events, they installed lights in those ruins.

We headed off for beer and pizza. Along the way, I was told by the “camouflage” (Jared) that they used to pretend to be ecoterrorists but now they really are. I never found out precisely what it was they actually did that made them think they had struck some blow for Mother Nature. Attempting to ascertain that and curiosity about what was really in store as the evening wore on were the primary reasons for sticking around with them.

They opened manhole covers along the way, examining the contents. I asked Dan if he had these mapped as they indicated they had been doing this for some time. He just pointed to his head, that he was memorizing them.

Some of these tunnels contained cellphone equipment and lines. Others, something to do with the City’s heating system. Many were empty, blocked up mudholes, or inaccessible.

One stop (the 501 Bar which is located behind a gay bar called The Eagle) involved a brief meeting with their supposed “eco-terror cell leader”, a youngish woman with short blond hair whom I was told was a lesbian. She implied to Walter that I was not wanted around (which launched various double entebdres that could be construed as sex or murder in a deserted place like a cave…or a blocked up sewer tunnel). This s*** was already pushing the boundaries of credibility, but the “young gay ecoterrorists run by a lesbian” really pushed it over the top. Her inability to make eye contact with me coupled with the whole evening’s innuendo really poured on the tongue-in-cheek.

At the 501, I gave Dan my cell number and asked him to text me. He did so. Jared was about to object, but stopped himself. Was he worried that whatever was going to happen that night might be traced back as a result of that text? I know that was why I asked him to do it.

The first of several lids they opened were primarily in the back alleys of Downtown Minneapolis. When I suggested this activity might perk the interest of MPD, I was told that they were mostly concerned with other matters.

Along the way to more urban exploration, they added a fourth person. Chris, closer to 30, perhaps 6’1″, and with an athletic build. Now I had reason to consider that Walter’s innuendos might have some teeth and the reasons for finding a nice cave (natural or manmade tunnels) might be hazardous to my health. Chris worked at the famous music venue, First Avenue. At Pizza Luce, Chris suggested to Walter that he “practice” on their acquaintance Tim. It was another of those, “sex or death or something else?” triple-meanings. Walter had purposely and pointedly brought up adding Chris to me as if his arrival might mean something. It was a double-entendre, sort of a Rorschach test: would I assume Walter’s mustache-twisting performance meant that they intended me harm? F***, yes. Whether they actually did was another question altogether.

As we progressed along and it got later, we wound up in more and more remote locations. I think one of them (based on the map I found later) was on the property of the Federal Reserve. It was a big blank wall in a parking lot next to our next destination: the railroad tracks leading from Downtown across the Mississippi, onto Nicolett Island, and into NE or SE Minneapolis.

While attempting to open the one in the parking lot, Walter was bent over sufficiently so I could see his underwear. They had Chinese writing on them, don’t know what brand that was. In retrospect, this pushed things well into the informant category, where they were looking for radicals of any sort: communists, eco-terrorists, whatever. Walter, for whatever reasons (self-loathing homo, blackmailed by FBI) was on a fishing expedition.

They hopped over the railing and down to the railroad tracks. Hilariously, Jared offered me a hand to help prevent me getting injured. That’s when I also noticed, despite the recent rainfall, there was a clean, dry bundle of hay sitting there to jump down safely onto. This didn’t occur to me at the time (remember, drugged silly) but became obvious later.

On the way to the next lid, deciding better-safe-than-sorry would be a good policy, I picked up a torn beer can and folded it into a crude knife. If nothing else, I could scratch Chris’ face or nick an eyelid, and make a run for it if necessary.

Further on, I found a better weapon and traded up from the (D&D joke, has to happen) cursed dagger to a +1 club. Like the hay, this thing was not wet nor covered with dirt like everything else laying around. This was a prop that had been placed after the rainfall.

It’s proper use is as a tool of some sort. I still haven’t found the proper name for it, but I think it’s a disposable thing used to drive railroad ties into the ground, contains a one-shot charge that is fired to drive them down or enhance the force behind the swing of the hammer behind it.

One other strange thing is that the item was noisy, rattly. None of the others seemed to notice the noise, which should have been an indication that this was largely theater.

When we got to the last cover, Dan and Jared walked off. The narrative seemingly was that they couldn’t bare to watch what was going to happen next. Apparently Chris, at Walter’s command, was going to knock, throw, or otherwise force me into the hole to be left to bleed, drown, or otherwise be trapped unless and until I could escape.

As we stood there, the club up a sleeve ready to smack Chris’ skull if he made a move toward me, Walter and Chris gave each other a look that defies easy explanation in English (I told Holder and Mueller it was Mamihlapinatapei when I sent them an email in November 2010 about what happened that night). After a few seconds, they seemed to give up and we made our way across the railroad bridge. They slid down a hill under the Grain Belt Beer sign on Nicolett Island and I went home.

The narrative that came out from all of this, the new lie that they pushed, was that these people, Dan, Walter and Jared, were the associates of the news site friend of the Squidgate accused. Unfortunately, given my extremely confused state of mind at the time and the continued harassment that followed these events, that one stuck for a while. However, I decided that these kids were mostly fantasizing despite all that and were mostly harmless. It would take some time and additional information before the truth dawned on me.

(To be continued)



  1. […] Not long after I mentioned him in an email, after the events that began on the Stone Arch Bridge?). Like this:LikeBe the first to like this […]

  2. […] to drive a wedge there. To make me look like the criminal you made up. Yeah, I’ve looked into that and am satisfied it was not them. I’m sure they appreciate it, […]

  3. […] to drive a wedge there. To make me look like the criminal you made up. Yeah, I’ve looked into that and am satisfied it was not them. I’m sure they appreciate it, […]

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