Gary Webb Redux: The LGBT Community and Meth

They’re animals, so let them lose their souls.

It is my considered opinion that the Central Intelligence Agency targets the LGBT community with crystal meth in much the same way that it targeted poor black communities with crack cocaine. This latter was reported on by Gary Webb. While Mr. Webb did not accuse the US government of institutional racism and bigotry {some of the large papers that, when push comes to shove, tow the line for the Military Industrial Complex like the Washington Post accused him of it, however}, I am. I will explain why below.


First, of course, the crack cocaine epidemic. The CIA used profits from selling it domestically for black bag operations that were off the books. That is, these were operations and programs that they did not believe they had to report to Congress because the funding was not coming from taxes but rather the exploitation of poor neighborhoods, predominantly African American, in California. This worked, CIA was never punished for this, and it continued after Webb’s reporting on the topic and tracing the money and drugs from Central America to the US.

The result domestically was also that politicians got to “take a stand” against drugs and demonize those who sold it and used it as “super predators.” The stigma remains today as does the high incarceration rate resulting from a CIA operation.

And let us not forget the lengths CIA went to experimenting drugs on human beings under MK/Ultra and other programs using initially the former Nazi scientists brought in under PAPERCLIP, BLOODSTONE, etc. Nor how, for example, notorious gangster James ‘Whitey’ Bulger got 15 years knocked off a prison sentence for agreeing to be one such guinea pig.


In small farming communities in the US it is often made domestically. Chemicals used on some farms can cover for the purchase of materials necessary to make crystal meth.

However, in Maricopa County, Arizona, it is smuggled in from Mexico. More specifically, the state of Sinaloa, which is where El Chapo and his cartel were located. El Chapo who miraculously escaped several times, once reportedly via a long tunnel about which there is a conspiracy theory that the tunnel was not actually completed but rather Guzman’s CIA handlers released him and used the tunnel as a media stunt to cover up the method of release. Why not? In any case, it comes from the Mexican Cartel located there.


I’ve met probably a few hundred people who currently use or were addicted in the past to crystal meth in the year and a quarter living here. Predominantly, probably 65% are gay men. There’s probably another 10-15% that engage in some form of homosexual activity even though their preference may be for females. While it is not reportedly as addictive as crack cocaine, crystal meth is clearly highly addictive. The lengths many of these current addicts will go to to get that fix makes this clear.

Much like the mythical pull-yourself-up-by-your-own-bootstraps mantra, officials in the US indicate that simply saying no to drugs is the way to get off them. In civilized countries, it is considered an illness to be addicted, and is treated via healthcare. Emphasis on civilized.

As I’ve noted time and again, the point is to keep us distracted, divided, and fighting among ourselves lest we band together and demand universal healthcare and income. The CIA, and whenever I say that now I also mean the counter-intelligence division of the FBI, they are essentially the same thing, Eisenhower’s fear of a domestic secret “police” has been realized, serves the interests not of the People but of the multinational corporations and that means keeping social nets and benefits as low as possible. As the profits continue to break records, so does the multinationals’ power and influence; it is the snowball, growing in size and increasing momentum, until it overwhelms anything and anyone in its way. To distract from this requires “bad guys” to point a finger at and who better than minorities and those suffering from one form of illness or another? People outside the mainstream make easy targets, as we’ve seen with the transgender bathroom nonsense recently.

As a further reminder of the connection between the CIA and the Mexican Cartels, I point the reader again to the story of Mike and Gary, and how it was that former CIA officer Gary came to be in the cartel’s employ.


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.

By Popular Demand

More of an illustrative story. One that relates how the world really works, what makes it tick when it matters.


Mike started being a drug dealer in LA back in the 80s. Mike did a lot of time in the penn because a booby-trapped trunk of the car he was driving blew up when a cop opened it and a hot piece of metal burned the cop’s eyeballs out. Mike had tried to warn him, the trap was to stop other crooks, not the police and DEA. For those, all you had to do was go quietly and wait for the lawyer to show up as long as you weren’t the f—up of the month that the cartels threw law enforcement to hide the fact that the War on Drugs is a farce. Just enough seized to justify raising the street price and, by the way, making it seem as though more was seized each time because it was measured by street value that increases after each bust due to the appearance of scarcity.

Anyway, that’s why Mike did so much time and then had to leave California after he got out. He had told the cop not to open it and got bashed in the teeth for the warning and LAPD and LACSD have long memories.

But what is more interesting is of course how Mike learned to booby-trap trunks.


Gary was an orphan who put himself through college. Gary was undercover during the war in Vietnam as a US Army Staff Sergeant linguist when his real job was as a CIA officer.

Gary took eleven enemy bullets in Veitnam. Thankfully for him, one was a tracer round and that cauterized several of the others so he didn’t bleed to death.

Gary was sent stateside to recover from his injuries but remained under his cover. This is where some general decided to boss around a staff sergeant in order to impress a lady.

At first Gary balked at the silly request to pick up a piece of paper. Then he realized why he had been asked and was admonished for talking back. Gary apologized and the general moved on.

So, of course Gary went to the vehicle storage facility building and rigged the general’s car’s gas tank to blow up the next time it was on a long trip. It worked and the general died.

He turned himself in to the MPs but suggested that they needed to call a number on a card that he gave them. Eventually, they did call.

Langley goons showed up and got the charges dropped. “We have to end our affiliation with you,” they told him, “But don’t worry, we’ll find you a new gig.”

The new gig was teaching drug dealers “security.”

Now that’s about as close to absolute power as it gets. CIA, and the intelligence community in general, likes to claim it is well disciplined.

Yet nothing has changed. You can be the guy who pulled duty to drive the general, burn in flame, and not even merit a mention in the story when it is told on some blog.