BBD – Will the Real Slim Shady…

Note: I am bothering to post this for one reason really. If I don’t, the shithole responsible for it will continue to prod and poke me until I acknowledge it. So this is so that they can consider it acknowledged and move on to the next idiotic covertard scheme.

If the post below actually makes sense to you…you might want to worry. Possibly you’ve read a lot of my stuff including the draft of the book over here and therefore you get it from that. Maybe you’re a genius and it makes more sense, or you’ve caught on to some of the behavioral modification and social engineering tricks and you can see how it fits.

But really it’s not supposed to make a lot of sense to a normal person. It’s madness logic, which is to say it is illogical but when surreptitiously drugged out of your skull and harassed to the point of mental, physical and emotional exhaustion, somehow feeling your way to the truth, which is not the truth at all but rather a trick being perpetrated on you by the intelligence community, somehow makes some sort of sense.

You’ve been warned.

2008-2009 – MANHATTAN

Back in late 2008 or sometime in 2009, as I’ve mentioned in Wicked Game, I had some celebrity clients. Since my career as a real estate consultant seems to be dead as Elvis, I suppose it’s okay to talk a little about one such project, leaving out various details.

Harrison Ford bought a small condo apartment in Manhattan. We were called in to check on some things that the condo board and seller had promised but not delivered on. For example, there were leaky windows.

I wound up doing a couple of visits and writing up a report about various items. Some weeks later, I got a call from the man himself. He really sounded like he does when he’s playing a POTUS. Very declarative. I really thought he was pulling my leg when he said…

“Caulk. Black caulk. That architect you guys sent {referring to me, not realizing who he was speaking to. I’m not an architect, the partners, my former bosses, are} said there should be black caulk on those windows.”

I was immediately reminded of the SNL sketch regarding cork soakers. If you aren’t getting it, maybe you should read this and the previous sentences out loud.

Anyway, that was that job. Bruce Willis was another, but that’s not relevant to the subject of this post.

Not long before everything in my life exploded, the attorney through whom Mr. Ford had hired us pulled me aside to say he was very pleased with our product and help with the apartment.

And of course later came that strange interaction with the person I refer to as Janus in a corner grocery in Brooklyn.

2010-2011 – MINNEAPOLIS

This is the tough part. The longer I remain sane, at least as sane as someone who has been through what I have can be, the harder it is to recall how my thinking was skewed back when I was being surreptitiously drugged by the US government. Some of the details have become fuzzy.

For example, how did I come to start thinking of Janus, or R as I referred to him back then, as a Jedi? Not a literal Jedi, I wasn’t that far gone, but symbolically. I was somehow imagining this person very specifically, imagining his tastes and interests and without any basis whatsoever. In other words, it was most likely being fed to me via something like voice-to-skull.

I don’t recall. I do recall quoting Han Solo in one or more whacky emails I sent to someone. I recall buying a Star Wars book at Barnes & Noble, convinced that R was going to show up any day and it would be there waiting for him.

{Of course all of that came crashing down when the Democrats tried to get me to go postal on the Republicans during Juneteenth and then again in November of 2011. This is the party I supported and volunteered to work for and most of us assume are pro-LGBT. Silly, silly me. Silly, silly you.}

The idea developed further, once it started dawning on me that R, or Janus, was likely a spy and had played a pivotal role in destroying my life on behalf of the Obama administration. Suddenly, the whole darkside thing came into play.

Note that I don’t much care about any of this anymore. Obama is just another greedy, phony, self-centered prick attracted to power. Again, I’m just playing along and posting this here because I’ll be poked until I do.


Right. Janus. First they threw Hamilton Morris at me.

Contemporary in Brooklyn…check. Drug expert…check. Followed the footsteps of a few CIA doctors who went looking south of the border for various plants…check.

And seems possible he’s the type to secretly {or openly} resent Dad, the progressive activist filmmaker.

Except he just isn’t Janus.


Right. Andrew Driver.

First, recall that I was drugged and I think that Janus was wearing a mask. Mostly this would serve to hide features like his nose and any moles or identifying marks he may have. He had none that were visible, in fact his complexion was too perfect which is why I think he was wearing one of those masks.

He also had blond hilights in his brown hair. But he did have a large nose and his ears stuck out.

Let’s compare to Driver.

Driver joined the Marines in 2003 as his personal response to 9/11. His nickname was Radar, due to the fact that his ears stick out.

He graduated from Julliard in 2009 and did a couple of New York City based TV show guest spots in 2009 and 2010.

And it was not lost on me that the reward for f—ing someone like me over on behalf of a selfish elected prick might be substantial.

Another kind of fit. I also noted Janus’ graceful moves and Julliard is also known for its intense dance training.

And yet I just don’t think so. Instead, I think the selfish elected prick just cannot get enough of people murdering people via the intelligence community and what does he care if some of them are in Hollywood?. I don’t know, probably at that level it serves as a drug itself…maybe an aphrodisiac.

So ends yet another pointless waste of time and taxes. Thanks, Obama. For everything.

(Not if I actually see and manage to recognize you first, Janus.)

Most Corrupt Administration

This is just a quickie, a bookmark really, and yet another tale about a whistleblower sidelined by the Obama administration in order to protect the important people {read: criminal elite} from the rest of us.

Rob O’Dell, “Border Patrol agent: ‘I shot and there’s someone dead in Mexico’,” The Republic, 26 July 2016:

The story developing in court is that the Mexican kid, on the Mexico side of the fence, threw a rock and hit a K-9 officer so the border patrol agent of course had to murder him.

But there’s a different tale being kept from the court and for the most part the media. There’s a whistleblower.

There is video of the Elena Rodriguez killing, but Customs and Border Protection repeatedly has denied requests from The Republic to release the video. It has never been released publicly.

One person who said he has seen the video is James Tomsheck, the Assistant Commissioner of the Customs and Border Protection’s Office of Internal Affairs. He was reassigned in 2014 and subsequently retired.

Tomsheck filed a federal whistleblower retaliation complaint over his removal.

In several media interviews, he said that two Nogales police officers and a Border Patrol agent are standing at the fence without weapons drawn as marijuana smugglers are scaling the fence.

Tomsheck said that Swartz then comes up pulls out this gun, sticks it through the fence and begins firing. He empties his clip, reloads and fires again, Tomsheck said. He said no rocks can be seen in the video.

In a deposition for a civil case in another cross-border killing, Tomsheck said that “despite Border Patrol reporting that rocks had been thrown and a least one rock had struck and injured the Nogales Police Department police canine, FBI (Federal Bureau of Investigation) personally reported to me that no such incident had occurred and Nogales police denied anything of that sort had occurred.”

Even if the victim were throwing rocks, the agent would not have been in danger because of the geography, Tomsheck said in his deposition.

Because the Mexican side of the fence where Elena Rodriguez died is about 25 feet lower than the U.S. side, it would be all but impossible for a rock thrown from Mexico to hit someone near the fence on the U.S. side, he said.

Tomsheck said in the deposition that there are as many as seven or eight suspect incidents of use of force by the Border Patrol and that in many of the instances he believed that “Border Patrol leadership brought information that was not accurate about the incident … to skew the perception of the incident in the direction of it being an appropriate use of force when in fact it was not.”

Remember, this is the “liberal” administration who went after Thomas Drake and John Kiriakou. Not to mention lots of others whose names you will likely never hear.

Interesting to note that reassigned and subsequent retirement is what tends to happen when one is stepping on the toes of some non-Department of Defense entity, whereas the DoD seems to favor fake suicides whenever their drug deals are about to be revealed. Now we know which Department of Homeland Security prefers when it comes to coverups.

Coming up: More Star Killer madness.

Even More Mike & Gary: Parrot Man

Gary was Mike’s first visitor in prison after his conviction for drugs and maiming a police officer with the bomb in the trunk of his car. Gary’s visit was not a social one.

“There are a lot of old men who are very nervous.”

They sat in silence for a moment.

Gary already knew the answer though. Mike had several broken ribs. If he had talked, they would have grabbed Gary before he ever got to visit with him. He had kept his mouth shut and that concluded the purpose of the visit.

“Best of luck in the cage, kid.”

It would be years before they met again. Gary retired to Costa Rica and opened a bar. There, he became known as ‘Parrot Man.’ Mike learned this from the locals when he went to visit him, though he had no idea why Gary had earned the moniker.

When Mike eventually found Gary’s home, which was difficult to reach in the Costa Rican jungle, he found it was a simple hut. There was a dead parrot, stiff with rigor mortis, in the yard, which looked like it had seen better days.

In the main room, there was a six by three by three foot cage with a lock on it.

“What’s that?” he inquired.

“Oh, that. There was a parrot who destroyed the roof of the hut. I fixed it. Then the parrot came back and destroyed it again.”

Gary was fidgeting with something. He was still creating inventions for use in covert ops. Old habits like that one and living like a Spartan remained despite his retirement.

“So I captured it and put it in the cage. I gave it enough water for three days. Then, when I was sure it was looking at me, I swallowed the key. It died in the cage.”

Gary saw Mike’s reaction.

“Don’t feel sorry for that damn bird. It tore up my roof. It could easily have dug its way out of the cage. It had sharp talons. It didn’t want to live.”

As they talked into the night, Gary explained that, in Vietnam, he had seen a lot of young Americans die for no good reason. It had not been his place to question it, he said, merely to do the best job that he could. His personal politics had made no difference in his actions while there. However, this admission makes one wonder if that wasn’t part of his motivation for blowing up that general’s car in the first place.

Gary died in Costa Rica.


One thing that these accounts show, true as memory can account for, is that there is often more to stories than we are used to believing and that even when we suspect there is more to a story, our trust may be misplaced in assuming something is being done in secret for our benefit. Mainstream media has us quickly defining stories, such as drug busts and shootouts, a certain way and those ways are not the full story and often leave out the important bits such as why things we perceive as big problems persist indefinitely. Choices are given, often bad and worse and we take them because that is all that is offered.

This is not freedom. This is a simulation of freedom; an illusion of liberty hiding the fact that the age of man and the nation state is ending and the age of a construct is beginning. The age of the gargantuan multinational corporation is merely dawning. They are only loyal to themselves, they do not create jobs but rather profit from deleting them, they thrive on human misery and strife, capitalize on poverty, illness, and hopelessness, they distract us–with the aid of our elected and appointed officials and our corporate media–from the real problems and real culprits. Life from here on to the foreseeable future is going to be about constant fear; fear of being stepped on because a thing decided to step on communities did so; fear of the opposition because that is what the news–or what will pass for it–will tall you that you should be afraid of. This is a moment in time predicted by so many good and bad science fiction stories and yet we fail to recognize it as such because we are living inside it. What passes for normal today would have been completely absurd, totally insane, a mere few decades ago. People persist in thinking everything is sort of random. While I would not go as far as to say everything is not random, there is a lot more that is not, that is planned, executed, and even when things go awry, the fallout is controlled and all for a few simple goals: Distraction, increasing power and profits, and keeping the majority of the population from having a say by siphoning off their wealth and rights a little at a time.

If you can stop and think like a psychopath for a moment, it really becomes clear. What is the end result of the negative TSA coverage? Privatizing airport security which will result in cheaper pay for workers but bigger profits for those who own the companies with the contracts. So it is with this week’s pair of police executions. Politicians will not increase funding to improve training; they will not send money to communities so individuals can get better educations and jobs; they will instead privatize the police and then you’ll only have law enforcement services–aka justice–if you can afford it and you pose no threat to the special interests who control it.

Your dystopia is here. You just need to open your eyes.

Still More Mike & Gary: Sold Separately

Mike continued his work for Jaime. Mostly there were no problems and everyone was pleased. After a particular exchange of product for cash, the dealers asked if Mike could acquire some weapons for them.

Unsure if he could, he called Gary. Gary asked what they wanted and told him the price. The dealers agreed.

32 M-16’s with ammo. The next week, Gary delivered them. The dealer and his weapon “expert” checked them out as Gary looked on. He could see that there was some disappointment over something, but the dealer smiled when he said, “Hey, c’mere.”

Gary did so. The dealer grabbed Gary’s hand and snipped the end of his thumb off with snips he had in the other.

“Do I have your attention?”

“Oh, you’ve got my full f—ing attention,” Gary answered.

“These weapons don’t fire.”

A little known fact regarding how Department of Defense runs things is that the firing pins are shipped and stored separately. This is to prevent an armed uprising, should any particular group, including one supposes the grunts under the brass’ charge, from gaining access to them and taking over the base.

Another side note, small thefts like 32 assault rifles rarely even make it to CID for investigation. You see, military commanders walk on water and so it is inconceivable that such thefts could occur under their command. They really want their files to reflect their supernatural abilities to keep America great and so the contents of their record trumps what occurs in the actual, real world. *

So they were off to Gary’s to sort things out. Mike pulled the lighter out of the dealer’s car and cauterized his thumb. The dealer, clearly elevated in his organization beyond his cognitive abilities, said, “Hey, no smoking in my car.”

“Smoking? You want me bleeding all over your leather seats?” Mike replied.

When they arrived, Mike and the dealer went to the door. The dealer’s partner waited in his car down the street a bit.

Gary exited the front wearing a nice, white dress shirt which he was buttoning the sleeves on.

“This him? The thumb guy?” was all Gary inquired.

“Yeah,” Mike replied meekly.

“So what’s the deal?”

“These weapons have no firing pins,” the dealer replied testily.

“Correct. Those are sold separately,” Gary explained while buttoning the other cuff and rattling off the price for 32 firing pins.

“No. You give me the pins. I already paid for them.”

“Ok. First, Mike, you wait inside.”

As Mike passed Gary, Gary whispered, “Out the back and down the alley.”

Mike went inside and went out the back. However, he waited rather than flee. He wasn’t sure what was next for him. Had he screwed up this time? Gary had reminded him that neither of them were arms dealers and they both worked for Jaime, whose business was controlled substances.

Several minutes later, Gary exited the back carrying a suitcase.

“What are you still doing here? I told you to run.”

“Yeah…but your house…”


There was an explosion from the front of the house on the street. Two charcoal drug dealers awaited the authorities.

“This was my house. It’s not anymore.”

Mike looked puzzled.

“‘What’s that officer? A drug deal gone bad? Blew up in front of my house? I was in Europe on business at the time. Bad neighborhood. I should move.'”


“But that’s the way it is. Always have a backup plan, a way out and be ready to go on a moment’s notice.”

They continued their work after some time at a new location.

* Pun intended.

More Mike and Gary: Not All Parkas

Dramatic reenactment.

Mike arrived at Gary’s home as he did on most days. Always uncertain what his training would consist of, he sometimes dreaded it. It seemed as though it was getting more and more violent and dangerous and far more so than whatever Mike faced simply working for Jaime and the Cartel.

Mike entered Gary’s living room, if you could call it that. There was hardly any furniture in the place. Gary slept on the floor on a mat. There were no photos, no paintings, not even any kitschy pieces of art. Gary had explained that he might need to leave at a moment’s notice and he never kept anything he couldn’t leave behind.

He also explained that even if he lost interest in a particular comfort, like a cushy bed or chair, his body would still want it and that was a weakness that he could not afford.

On this day, Gary was seated in a wooden chair and cleaning his shotgun. His mood seemed a bit out of character to Mike, less formal than usual.

“You snow ski?” Gary inquired while wiping the shotgun with a rag.

“No. I water ski now and then.”

Gary nodded, “Too bad. Got that parka for you.”

Gary nodded in the direction of a red parka hanging on a nail in the corner.

Mike looked at it.

“Go ahead and try it on.”

Mike walked over and picked it up. It seemed heavy to him. He got the front closed up around him, wondering where one snow skis in California.


Mike fell back against the wall, vaguely beginning to wonder what he could possibly have done to have Jaime have him killed. He got to his feet and realized he was neither dead nor dying.

“What the f—!?!”

“Relax. You’re okay, right?”

Gary liked to test things. He had sewn lead sheets, taken from x-ray protection aprons, into the parka to see if a homemade bulletproof vest were feasible. He may have had another motive as well.

Making sure that one was using the right tool for the right job required experience, according to Gary. That was why the next week he gave Mike a choice: Mike could shoot himself in the leg or Gary would do it for him.

Mike wound up doing it himself. Gary quickly filled the hole with some kind of animal fat soaked in alcohol and seared it closed. Now Mike would know what it felt like to be shot, though a .22 didn’t pack the power of a .45 or a 9mm.

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