The H2O Conspiracy

Also see Gonzomentary.

Mother Hive Brain From 1995

These started showing up in graffiti, at malls, etc in 1995. Track references in later works and through other disorganizations since...

Make Money From Home From NemeTode Industries

MAKE MONEY AT HOME from NemiTode Industries

You will receive a package of our Proprietary Blend Feed, and NemiTode eggs in an air-tight canister.

Keep the eggs below 32F for at least the duration of a month: they will die if left in our atmosphere above this temperature for any period of time!

After this incubation month, take out of the freezer and immediately swallow the contents of the cannister with milk.

The second phase of incubation will now begin.

When the eggs are ready to hatch you will begin to feel an itching sensation all over your body. This is normal. Find a dark place, somewhere underground. A basement or cellar will do just fine - and wait. Make sure that you have a large supply of fresh animal meat nearby. This can be a tense period, as it can last anywhere between 24 and 72 hours. At some point during that time, they will begin to hatch. MOVE AS CLOSE AS POSSIBLE TO THE ANIMAL MEAT, as they will be very hungry upon hatching.

After they have hatched, send us photographs of their shed skins as proof of your hard work, and we will send you a payment of $9999 care of the College of Aethyric Sciences.

http://philadelphia.craigslist.org/dmg/3039936473.html

We Don't Know Where This Leads

Intentional dreaming experiment: tonight I will dream of taking a long ride on a 19th century steam driven train, fucking myself to hellth with the Scarlet women of the Apocalypse while the great minds of that century have a great debate in the background about the nature of the subconscious.

Specific enough? Just need to visualize it and access the narrative and things are bound to get weird-----

From my journal when I was petitioning the College of Aethyric Sciences, back when that's how that thing worked. Beginning the experiment again. 

And then... more on the mask. I've begun the blueprints. It began when dreams were kickstarted by several synchronicities with a South American diablo mask, and then this-- 

More as it develops. I'd like to present the methodology behind exploring these symbols and building dialogues with the subconscious, and whatever exists under/through/behind/in it...

▲ı▼ı▲ General Growth Properties ▲ı▼ı▲

Connections to the canyon - "It will always go up!" - Controlled deflation conflagration...

The collapse was part of the ritual - the very crust of the earth the pyre.

ı▼ıı▼ıı▼ı

(ЯR) The Reptilian Resistance - The College of Ætheric Sciences

It seems that the CAS is becoming active again.

▲ı▼ı▲

A smoke signal - Now gather round and dance, our lovely butterflies. Fear not when you hit play - the trigger was pulled some time back.

ı▼ıı▼ıı▼ı

Rosetree Parable

by Narrator

The key was a seed and when she swallowed it, a huge rosetree grew from her stomach and fed us all for thousands of years until one day an evil lord used the law of the land to claim the tree as his own and began charging the folk to collect the nectar, the petals, the branches and then, to increase his profits, he began harvesting from the tree and exporting her body parts to distant countries in exchange for strange new drugs and spices to sell to the folk, but he took too much and the tree withered until all that was left was a bush and a legend. If only we had risen up and cut off his head, it would not have come to this. We must always resist the tyranny of those who would steal what belongs to everyone.

Facedown

Facedown by agent139

404 Documents Eighteen: From Inside

(More 404.)

Remember how I said I am obsessed by patterns, that I've always seen them everywhere? The patterns are like the glue holding the universe together.

Let me see if I can explain this another way. It might seem that the shortest distance between two points is a straight line. And, see, by appearances that is right. But straight lines are curved: the amount that they are curved is determined by the force exerted upon the fabric of space and time itself by another body. In my dream, the equation that poured from one girl’s mouth to the next, that’s what it meant.

When Bradley passed through my life, my course was irrevocably changed. When Stella left, there were no other bodies exerting enough gravity to keep me in a neat, orderly orbit. I hurled into deep space. Just a little nudge at that critical moment can change everything.

I looked for patterns and clung to them so tightly because I was afraid of the chaos. Now, sitting in this cell, it all unravels, unspooling around me like intestines floating in water, sweet slippery tendrils scrubbed clean by the alkaline nothing. Nothing. Nothing matters.

And it’s okay. It may as well be okay.

Twenty five years looking for meaning in news clippings, the scent of the flowers or garbage I just walked by, my dreams. Numbers, patterns. Only now do I realize. Nothing holds me anywhere. All bonds are illusion.

For now I continue with the role, a patsy for a fictional art crime, a crime that never occurred. The situation, a lifetime in a cell. The motivation? There is nothing here but a mask. What part of N-O-T-H-I-N-G don't we understand?

404 Documents Seventeen: Psychic Seige

(More 404.)

Adam Jones (aka “Agent 888”), age 33, was charged with terrorism offences after being arrested as part of a investigation linked to a new organization operating within the United States. He is accused of participating in a terrorist conspiracy to disrupt trade and commerce.

He was arrested last Tuesday in an operation which has seen eight others charged, including three who are alleged to have been plotting a bomb attack in the United States. He was captured in the act of these disruptive activities, and remanded in custody indefinitely under the National Defense Authorization Act of 2012.



reaching out
lost in doubt
fading fast
cannot last

there are traps set for those who stand against the grey malignance
managing the meddlesome who dare to lift the veil
dedicated servicemen monitor the flow of information
it might be irrelevant but they keep it just in case

psychic siege | winner take all
coordinated sleaze | as we take the fall

just give up | thats what they want
just roll over | and live in denial
we bow down | we always just back down
we lay down | there's nothing to be found

time has come | to prepare
don't return | to the herd
we sit back | we always just sit back
we relax | until we are attacked

infiltrating level 5 atrocities were endless
made it out alive with evidence to make my case
but the deadly pathogen invented secretly
had been cleverly concocted to degrade without a trace

404 Documents Sixteen: Shit Gets Real

(More 404.)

I arrived at the mall parking lot at the appointed time. There I saw all the usual suspects, plus a few faces I hadn’t seen before. Agent 777 smirked at me. “I can’t believe you agreed to this, man.”

“Me either,” I said quite sincerely. Why did I?

When the hood went over my head, I realized it was a bit late to be asking myself that question. There was no turning back. We so often make ourselves complicit in other’s designs, a passive bystander in our own lives. We’ll even let ourselves be tied to giant dollar signs, dressed like Santa Christ, apparently.

I wonder, when it’s all over, will I then use my passivity as an excuse for how Bradley “used” me? No, I have to accept my role in my life... somehow. Everything has been moving too fast to really grab life by the throat and live intentionally. Hands were moving over my arms and feet now, securing and testing the straps. 

“Hey, uh, guys?” I asked, my voice muffled under the hood. “Do you need to make it so tight? Does it matter?”

“Oh, it matters,” I heard a voice say.

Then another, “it’d be rude not to have a Christmas present for the Leviathan.”

I struggled in earnest then, but it was no use. I may as well resign myself to my fate, as always. It was never my decision, after all.

Then I felt myself being hoisted, the sound of the holiday float coming to life, that deep diesel grumble, the shrieks of what sounded like protesters - amongst that throng of voices I thought I could make out some familiar voices, as well - I heard what I imagined were the police, ordering the protesters to disperse through a megaphone.

Finally, the hood came off, leaving me face-to-face with a mob of screaming white suburban kids, all their slogans blurring together into a word salad nightmare: WE ARE THE 99%--SANTA JESUS DIED BECAUSE YOU TOUCH--OBAMA WAS NOT A BROWN SKINNED--BRING BACK CRYSTAL PEPSI--I SHAVED MY BALLS FOR THIS--HUNGRY, EAT A BANKER! 

“Christmas wonderland” blasted from the police loudspeakers, drowning out the protesters gibberish.
A bristling line of cops rolled into their midst as fake snow drifted down from above. Agent 506 winked at me from under his riot gear, right before laying out one of the protesters with his nightclub. Fists and sticks connected with human bodies, and once the chaos had reached its peak, even the protesters were brawling with one another. At that point, all the familiar faces slipped from the scene, leaving a bloody, shrieking mess for the real police, when they finally arrived in response to the second bomb threat that had been called in at this location in the past few months. And there I was, their Christmas lamb, wrapped with a bow.

404 Documents Fifteen: The Pieces Are In Place

(More 404.)

Bradley had a map laid out on an expansive table in the basement. All the Agents were in attendance. All had their shades on. Bradley was ignoring them, placing models on the map meticulously - robots, guns, tanks.

Agent 506 chortled.

“What’s funny?” Bradley asked.

“Nothing. It’s just. You’re playing with your dolls.”

“Just for that, you get trash detail,” Bradley said, throwing a folder at him. “These are your cover stories, your IDs, and the details of your mission. Don’t share notes with fellow classmates, kids, or I’ll have you eviscerated by a pack of silverback Gorillas.”

I opened up my folder. It had a drawing of Jesus Christ with a halo dressed like Santa, crucified to a dollar bill. Under it Bradley had writted, “CONGRADDDDULATIONS! You have the most important job of all. Bring the shroud of Turin. (Or a bath towel.)”

I stared at it, feeling a far away pressure in my temples.

“Alright, look. I don’t want this.” I tried to hand the folder back to him.

Bradley looked me square in the eyes. “There is a fork in the road. On one side, we have you, turning down this Op, and going home to your empty, illegally occupied apartment, to an empty bed. On the other, you get to see the sublime in action, the truly fucking sublime, when chaos shatters the foundations of civilization and truth peeks back at you through the cracks. What will it be?”

I don’t know why, but I took the folder.

“Good boy.”

Agent 506 scowled. “I don’t see anything in here that requires that fancy map you’ve got over there. And what the fuck are those miniatures supposed to be? Hoverboats and tanks?”

Bradley shrugged. “It’s game night. I needed a cover for our meeting. Speaking of, this meeting never happened. Make sure to take some Mountain Dew before you leave.”

404 Documents, first contact

Contained within this podcast.

First initiation protocol contained in this podcast beyond the 10 minute mark. Cyphers for later narratives. Also included is an excerpt from Transmedia Litany, with Genesis P. Orridge & Joseph Matheny. All of the music and content that makes up this podcasts is home-grown, recorded in various home & psuedo-professional studios.

Some links you may want to check out after / while you listen:ZenseiderZ, the rough version of the MHB informercial (c2000), the Join My Cult! eBook, fallen nation.

404 Documents Fourteen: Tipping Point

(More 404.)

Whether it was a self-fulfilling prophecy or whether it was just meant to be, Stella left me a month later, almost to the day. It was a fittingly maudlin but quiet parting: the sky was overcast, it was drizzling, and she pulled out in our car. OK, admittedly, it was her car to begin with, but it was also my only form of transportation. She was also the only one with a steady income at this point, so I figured I had a month, maybe two, before the eviction process really got underway.

First thing - before I put on my clothes, before I showered (why bother) - I picked up the phone and I called Bradley. “I am on to you, you deranged fucker. Or are you on to me? Either way, I’m ready.”

“Oh, is that how it is, now? How long since the missus pulled out of the driveway?”

I didn’t even bother to guess how he’d figured that out at this point, and grunted an affirmative. I still felt nothing. Well, I felt ready to die. But like a soldier is ready to die, not like you imagine a love-lorn fuckup living on borrowed time. I looked through the nearly empty fridge, rummaging for something to quell my gurgling stomach. Milk. Eggs. That’ll do.
“Our test of mall security showed me a few things,” he said.
“Our test?!”
“Yeah. You took one for the team. Now it’s time for the real Op.”
I drank half the milk carton before I realized it had gone bad. A chunk of congealed milk stuck in my throat like stale semen (& my God, how did I know that, anyway?). I swallowed with a wince. “Ready to do my duty for God and country.”
“You’re really starting to scare me,” Bradley said. “Alright. This time we call in the bomb threat before anyone shows up. Maximum chaos, maximum fun. All the Agents will roll in dressed like Santa Claus, a giant fucking parade, one of you crucified on a giant dollar sign.”
“Isn’t it really early for Christmas?”
“Hm. Yeah. Well, they say Christmas comes earlier every year, right?”
“Sure,” I said. I threw out the milk. Glug-glug-glug. It shuddered in my hands like a prom queen puking up a gutful of tequila and cake.
“They’ll think it’s a prank. Boy cried wolf, right?”
“Right. But in reality it’ll be...” I trailed off, eyes unfocused.
“Oh? Nothing. It’ll just be that. A crazy reality art prank.”
I knew with absolute certainty that he was lying.

404 Documents Thirteen: The Epiphany

(More 404.) i had to start breathing through my mouth, hyperventilating ... though i still felt like somehow i wasn't getting enough air into my system. oxygen is sanity and there isn’t enough. i nodded at the guy ringing up my groceries, and figured it would pass. can you imagine how sickly and false my smile looked, forcing a crack through my weathered skull? but the checkout guy didn’t even notice. the madness came in waves. finally one washed over me that i just couldn’t take and i rode it straight out the door. i knocked a shelf over. hundreds of cans of campbell's soup slammed to the floor and rolled around. i lept, rolled through the automatic doors, came to my feet. they wouldn’t take me alive. 

by this time stella clearly realized that something was wrong. i stopped, back bent and arched over my caved-in chest, panting and retching. her fingers tightened around mine and she asked me what had happened, so i told her. though how could i really explain what was happening to me? i didn’t know. everything floats out of reach. you never know when the last meeting is going to be. no one knew what they meant to me.

i started to calm down, but by the time i got into the car i was having an incredibly hard time breathing properly and i felt my pulse racing again. let it happen. you can’t fight it. let it happen. the words kept repeating in my head, slowly at first but then faster and faster until it was just a meaningless stream of consonants and vowels, a babbling brook of broken glass and suffocated dreams.

404 Documents Twelve: Epiphany in Aisle Nine

(More 404.)


I was in a grocery store with Stella, and I think I was awake. I mean, I think this was real now. Was. Was. Is? I’m not dreaming? I can’t tell anymore.

I pace in an aisle, and try to ignore that playdough smell still clinging to my headboard made of cheap plaster and wood, held together by nails and tacks and tape, a head lined with wires buzzing zzzz as the moments stretch like taffy between eager childrenfingers. The meat of my body tenses, a strange thing stretched over a framework of ancient calcium and phosphorus bzzzt pig hearts quietly wrapped in cellophane. bzzzzpptt electrical current running through us all. I can feel the weight of the atmosphere, the pressure of miles of air and radiowaves and wifi signals pressing down on my chest. I can’t breathe in here, you assholes! I scream, but no one responds. The pig hearts are all pulsating in unison with my own pig heart, convulsing in the encaged crevasse of my chest. A woman grabs her child close and they rush past this crazy bag of meat and bones that hasn’t shaved in a week, oscillating neurotic frequencies in a medium of thin air. I gasp and reach out for Stella’s reassuring hand, but now I can’t find it and my hand just hangs out there, awkward and useless. I’m alone, she’s in aisle 9 looking at cat food.

404 Documents Eleven: I Am An Ice Cream Cone

(More 404.)

then i wake up. his words linger in my head, they move around like a scrub-brush vigorously applied to the inside of my skull. but they leave no meaning or realization in their wake. tiny creases? what does that have to do with?--

the phone rings, almost right away. my god, i think. if that’s bradley, that is going to really fuck with me.

i pick up the receiver and hear gibberish on the other end.

Muriel Clayton

i assume it’s a wrong number. do i say 'hello'? do i hang up? that wouldn't be my style. i gotta get with the natives, get indigenous, you know what i'm saying? so i parrot back new nonsense words with a similar inflection.

'woot ginnenah?' 'sit voo ginneh bah.' 'soo menh hahl bah! kittchee kittchee kittche joo boo bahhh frennnwich?'

we go back in forth in a 'conversation' like this for about 3 minutes, until finally the voice begins to raise, (is it anger? emphasis?) and then, in clear english, the voice says to me: “THE LIPS OF WISDOM ARE CLOSED, EXCEPT TO THE EARS OF UNDERSTANDING.”

click. the receiver goes dead.

i wondered what language they were speaking, or what they made of our exchange... but so it goes. most questions go unanswered. story of my life, right? i drift back to sleep.

I was at a Chinese feast of some sort, served all these different silver platters by attractive Swedish girls, and the food on the plates are small ancient nation states.

Feeling both full and wise after engorging myself on such multi-cultural fare, (Athens was particularly tasty) I took a walk in a shopping center parking lot. I was back in southern California now, an endless expanse of overgrown highways and outdoor malls and shopping centers. Unless if you're going back in the mountains, most of the places to walk are parking lots. I've taken many 'leisurely strolls' in them. It's particularly relaxed, because you're absolutely assured of getting absolutely nowhere.

I saw a girl standing in the lot. She was pretty much the american ideal (tm) of beauty, which isn't normally my thing, but I recall thinking something along the lines of 'when in babylon,' and as I was thinking that my perspective moved up and out, until I was maybe 100' above her or so. at this point i became aware that the parking lot was in fact a playing board- like chess, checkers, othello, ... I returned back to normal scale, a being of pure perception. The narrative lives inside our bodies. Get out your grapefruit spoons, it’s time to dig.

By this point I was clearly flirting with her, which is pretty incomprehensible if you think about it, since I had neither mouth nor eyes, but it seemed to be going pretty well because I transformed into a bedroom, lined with lace, and strange dangling mobiles and tinkling bells.

She took her clothes off inside my walls.

As she undresses inside me, another of her popped into existence, wearing some kind of nightgown. Still a Skinemax “After Dark” type of production, but condensed and made more tangible as it is squeezes through the churning vortex of a DMT kaleidoscope. This damsel in a dress narrates at me, up to the walls of pressed-wood and plaster that pretend to be my body, “thanks to the Order of the Hidden Carriage House, i speak in a secret code that will bend all to my Will, which is so Secret that even i, who am but a shadow of my Being within this timeless Company of great Carriage Houses, know it not and lo! if you find yourself performing the most Holy Communion with an ice cream cone, you will know that you are one of the few, True members of this Hidden Interior Order.” The juxtaposition of her talking in this way, and then another of her undressing was surreal. And she is perfect, I mean stunningly, inhumanly perfect, in the way that only science could produce. She is a simulacra, an ideal sheathed in flesh. I want to slather her in wet plaster.

This naked third peeks behind some kind of screen and looks up at my ceiling-flesh. She's also moving her mouth but no sound is coming out.

Now all three of them are inside my bedroom body. One is undressed, tied to the bed, struggling against her restraints, and another is wearing a business suit. The third is still wearing the dress. The one in the business suit starts making out with the the one tied firmly to the bed, though she keeps pulling just out of range, her attention easily switching between playful teasing and intense concentration at the documents in a folder that she has splayed across her lap. She grabs her restrained self by the hair and forces her mouth open. In come all those sweet numbers and words from the spreadsheet, arcane mathematical formula pouring down her consentually nonconsenting gullet.


I am an ice cream cone, dripping from the ceiling and walls, dairy, sugar, and salt congealing into the approximate shape of a man.

All of them freeze and turn into playdough. I press one of their perfectly formed bellies and it indents and stays that way. The smell of salty playdough overwhelms me and

I awake drenched in terrorsweat to a surreal, orange sky; ashes raining down, eyelashes to the red eye of the sun.

The air is still.

Too still.

404 Documents elevent: The Dream #1

(More 404.) 


"We don't die, it's much worse: we vanish. In other words, we never were. There is no reality." Petr Král

As I said, everything was already starting to change for me. These things begin little by little. It seems that all at once there is an audible snap and your life is wholly different. But when we look back we can see that it was actually a long time coming. It seemed to begin with my dreams that night.

I was on a giant battleship, which was - I think - steaming toward the US capitol. I’m not sure how, but in some way I understood that our mission was a last ditch effort to save the American Dream. Crew were carrying missiles back and forth through the hull. Screams, smoke, flashing lights. Amidst the commotion, I inquired what they were planning on doing with those, (the were sidewinders, air-to-air, we had no planes onboard, what the hell good were they?)
One of the crew awkwardly dropped one and an auto-door slammed shut on it with a clink.

Everything seemed to stop. The rocking of the boat. The yelling and carrying on of the crew. Even the sloshing of the waves below deck. All our eyes went toward thousands of pounds of munitions, rolling around on the floor as the doors opened and slammed shut again. And then the gut-wracking moment. There was a sucking oomph and metal and bodies became high velocity shrapnel themselves, shearing people like they were little more than paper cut-out dolls. I was lying on the ground and I wondered when this was, was this world war 3? Was this the Queen Mary? Was I alive? What the hell was going on?

I thought I was waking up for the first time, at that moment, but of course I was neither awake nor aware. But it seemed that I was. And if things can seem so true and yet be complete lies, then what can we trust, really?

404 Documents ten: the Other

(More 404.) 


I was sitting with Stella at the crap diner we frequented. The food was terrible, but there was something comforting in how constantly underachieving the place was. She absentmindedly pushed her deep fried Cod through a trough of mayonnaise and relish with her fork. There was a drawn out and somewhat uncomfortable silence.

Silences like that have always been the death of me. They are so excruciating that I’ll say anything to make it stop. Usually it is harmless, some random detritus floating at the top of my mind like a cluster of oil-soaked pelicans. But sometimes it isn’t.

“I think I’m losing my mind,” I said.

She stopped chewing for a moment, but then nodded as if she had already known that. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

We kept chewing in silence.

I guess this wasn’t one of those times. I hadn’t blown anything. But her lack of response was telling: it was already starting to show. Because it was true. I never before thought a mind was something you could lose, but now, I’m just not so sure.

Her eyes were like two porcelain saucers. Beautiful, but empty. I looked down at my food, and suddenly didn’t feel very hungry.


That evening I watched some old movies of myself and Stella.


I realized something: it is very possible to take someone you love for granted, because of the things that you are personally knotted up over. Little inconsequentual things that may bother you about that person. I can be very OCD at times. I have a habit of putting people up on pedestals and then knocking them down when they do not fully meet my own expectations.


When i watched those videos, I realized that at first, she had been very good to me. I truly did love her, but I couldn't help but take her for granted. The reason was simple: I felt insecure about my own faults. It was a game of deflection played out in my own mind, against an invisible judge and jury. 


When I saw things in this person I didn't like, what I was really seeing were pieces of my own self- the things I had rejected that I had yet to even become aware of. We sometimes become infatuated when we view the other as a means to our ends: an escape from ourselves. When the period of 'infatuation' wears off and the 'love' thing can grow- the feeling of being so close to someone you would do anything for them - many run. Maybe my way of doing that was to put under a microscope everything about her that i didn't care for - her taste in music, the way she talked, the things she said, her friends, her ideas. Everything that I didn't like. They were all things I didn't even have a right to judge. But that doesn't keep us from doing it. 


Psychological projection is the name of the game.
Are you beginning to see a pattern here? When we see our mirror image, in sharp and uncomfortable detail in an outsider, the "Other," we begin to see our own faults as if for the first time. You know this about me now. I felt I should tell you to give some frame of reference, or some idea about what Stella meant to me. She was the closest thing, and yet I had made our relationship entirely about me. I had alienated her from the conversation. Everything that followed was just the inevitable result of inertia. 


Fuck. I have to analyze everything, don't I? 

Later, the two of us lay intertwined in bed. I was absently tracing the outline of her hips with my finger when I noticed a small tattoo I somehow hadn’t seen before, slightly above the small of her back. A tiny black and orange butterfly.

“New tattoo?” I asked.

“No. I got it a while ago, when I turned eighteen.”

“Oh.” I’d never noticed it.

A monarch.

I closed my eyes, and felt a calm reverie overtake me, but as I nestled on that ledge above the welcome expanse of sleep, something cold and sharp impressed itself on my consciousness. It was like a wedge of sharp static driven inexorably into my mind. My eye cracked open, and I saw a figure leaning over the bed. It was without any particular features. I can’t say that it had a certain kind of face, or eyes, or nose, or hands, though it had all of those things.

It had skin but I couldn’t say what color, or if it was rough or smooth. It was just that a form, a figure, the very shape of a man without any details filled in, as if an artist had started to sketch and then passed out in a drunken stupor instead. I tried to sit up but found that my limbs wouldn’t respond. Only my eyes seemed to work, and they widened in fear as this form leaned in closer to me, peering right through me with its face-that-wasn’t-a-face, as it put its hands-that-weren’t-hands on my arm, and stepped right inside of my body. I fell then and there into that expanse, but it was no longer welcome. It was an endless free-fall, locked in an invisible embrace with this leaden Other, and my life has never been the same since.

404 Documents Nine: Field Report of Agent 888

(More 404.) 


888 was polishing up his field report. Adding its finishing touches. Before he had ever begun writing it. He -- I -- continued:

Delving into this subject leads the intrepid researcher/wingnut/conspiracy theorist down an increasingly convoluted path of inquiry into the subjects of Scientology, CIA government mind control black ops, child sex slavery rings in Washington, DC, methodical disinfo campaigns, "Satanic Ritual Abuse", Alternate Reality Gaming, and... Hunter S. Thompson (?!) So buckle up and put your tinfoil hats on. This shit will get ugly.

404 Documents Eight: Money from Ventura's People

(More 404.) 

So now heat is moving in, the Buyer used me as a frame job and I’m stuck explaining to you why you are reading what you are reading. Let me put it to you like this: After artists were martyred for speaking the truth, an intricate smokescreen began. Its purpose was to place the ones who had failed up on the pedestal chopping block of public opinion. This took many forms disguising itself as revolutions or upstarts to feed on more young gullible minds and the Empire used them to spread itself. They bought more proverbial T-Shirts and the whole thing began again.

…



How long have i been writing this? he thought. and. how am i not myself? am i not myself i’m not me and how am i not myself?

TO: BRADLEY THE BUYER
FROM: J.C.

Hey, listen- regarding the last thing you sent me. I spoke to Jesse Ventura’s people. So I want you to file this report to give them your full insider scoop on mind control black ops when they contact you because they are looking for a story. We’re going to have you penetrate the inner circles of the Black Lodge and photograph the whole thing with your memories & we’ll develop the film in your brain & sell it and MAKE MONEY. MONEY MAKE ME $$$$$4$$$$4$$!$$!$!$14!$!$!!! and submit the report to Ventura’s people. We’ll make lots of money.

Godspeed, Waterface.

-JC

404 Documents Seven: Nova Heat Substance D

(More 404.) 

Memories flash back to me, layers of skin carefully peeled off, revealing pink machinery beneath. I began to feel as if I were having a certifiable schizophrenic episode. Was this work related stress? The missions, the drugs, a genuine preexisting mental condition unmasked by these factors...or something else entirely?

“You’re just on Substance D, man. You’re spun the fuck out,” the man calling himself Spoony explained. The fragmented identity structure called “Spoony” had yet to become “Chance Melborne,” a somewhat more resolved and serious young man concerned mainly with smuggling and trafficking in classified information and chasing tail. This transformation was to occur sometime later, or earlier, depending upon your place on the timeline. Of course, no one would remember it, in any event.

Nothing is remembered. All is lost.

“The Blue Brotherhood doesn’t exist. These journalists weren’t onto anything, the Monarch Mind Control lead is a dead end. And of course the Scientologists wanted to fuck over these dead journalists... The Scientologists want to destroy anyone remotely intelligent who isn’t a part of their fruity little club. You need to sleep. How many days has it been now?” He looked at his watch. The hands twitched their way around the face, little shivering cockroach legs.

Agent 888 pushed aside empty bottles of Dos Equix and various piles of debris, coughed asthmatically and fished for another mentholated cigarette from his shirt pocket. I was seeing inside the hole in my memory made by the benzos. Or was I just telling myself it was the drugs? Maybe something else was at work here.

“Oh yeah?” the Buyer replied. He was here? So he hadn’t left after all. “I thought that was a fictional name for ‘speed’ from a Philip K. Dick book. “

“No... It is who you are in general, man. Specifically you. Any drug. Any mind altering substance. Your life, living out investigations into things that don’t exist, and searching for answers, suspecting friend in enemy and enemy and friend. Your brain has detached and split into two different polarities: The left and right hemispheres, fighting for dominion over each other. What you need is balance. You are split man. There is a schism in your brain and you are fragmented. That is ‘Substance D.’ It’s not a drug, it is a state of mind. ...

“Did I happen to mention that I am your handler and that you are actually working for the CIA? I think you have potential if you stick with it. You have made it past at least 3 disinfo shells already, you’re hacking your way to the core of the syndicate and we are aware of who you are.... Just kidding man, I think you’re a fucking nutjob and I like to watch you grind your geeeears....”

“Maybe so,” the Buyer said. “Hustlers of the world, there is one mark you cannot beat. The mark within.”

I woke up in a cold sweat. Heart beating rapidly sweaty palms ache in jaw swallow down better soon. Who am I now? Endless corridors, twisted sheets, uneasy alliances, labyrinths, gargling in rat race choir drinking scotch playing ball with the men at the top... the top of... What? What was IT

I feel IT that means IT is there there, there is a there there there.... And so on and so on, perhaps forever.... IT reproduced ITself in the mind of the young and fed from our pain, nocturnal emissions and our tears.

Didn’t seem real; certainly most would discredit ITS existence. In fact, IT did not exist materially. IT existed as an idea. There is no There, There. Or is there a There, There? Something about a vortex... Like Schrodinger’s cat, but more.... Like it. Somehow. In universe B, Jeremy Blake and Theresa Duncan are alive, in universe B Scientologists never murdered them and I am not writing about a murder that never happened. In universe A, meanwhile, two options become apparent:

Suicide, or death by Scientology. Nova heat moving in...