An All-New Deep Knight Adventure

[Deep Knight]

The Return of Lady P
An All New Deep Knight Adventure
Epilogue – Additional Material at the End

I was feeling pretty good about myself, having once again single-handedly saved the world with only a little help from hundreds of people and advanced technology. But fate has a way of ruining even the best day, for example, the chafing that can follow even the most idyllic of … never mind. Anyway, in this clandestine caper the cowpea in the cinnamon bun was the sudden and unexpected appearance of Satan at the Ammonia factory’s offices. Office rumor was that he hasn’t made house-calls since the 60’s.

“Deep, how’s it hangin’ ol’ buddy ol’ pal?” he asked in a bright cheerful voice that had an almost-debilitating effect on me, it was so creepy. Swallowing hard I braced for bad news.

“I’ve just been with the Council of Twelve,” began the embodiment of all evil, “and they say they’ve been hearing really good things about you from Hillary Clinton and Vladimir Putin. We’ve got this new project, to form a body of people, typically influential members of government agencies or the military, for the secret manipulation or control of government policy. We’ve even named it in honor of you, ‘Deep State!’ Whatdoyasay?”

People stay healthy not saying “no” to The Prince of Darkness, but this was ridiculous. “I’m flattered,” I lied, “but you know I’m a field man, loving danger and the thrill of the kill. It’s the only reason I haven’t retired, well, that and the fact I might get arrested after killing people if I wasn’t able to keep current on Illuminati hand signals. That would really put a dent in the family’s leisure activities.”

“But think of the power you would have, lording over an intensely secretive, informal, fluid network of politicians who conspire to amplify their influence over national governments through a variety of what will be called ‘deep state milieux.’”

“I wasn’t interested before, but anything with the word ‘milieux’ in it is flat out,” I protested, but He Who Must Not Be Named continued like he hadn’t heard me.

“As a powerful large hierarchies dominated by psychopaths and sociopaths, our ‘Deep State’ will seek to frustrate radical and progressive change, so as to preserve our own power, and that of the establishment in general. But, in contrast to overtly authoritarian rule, we’ll operate more or less secretly, if you call being a topic of conversation on thousands of internet posts ‘secret.’ The official narrative will be that we simply do not exist.”

“If it doesn’t officially exist, then it doesn’t need any officials, much less a head,” I concluded. “But I suspect that I wasn’t the first person on your list, and won’t be the last. Have you asked Obama?”

Satan blushed, which is hard when you’re scarlet red, and shyly admitted he had. “’Obama State’ just didn’t have the right ring to it anyway,” he observed, “and he took offense when I asked to see his birth certificate. That’s one of your advantages, I don’t need a birth certificate, I can see you’re OK just by looking at you!”

“How about ‘Shadow Government?’” I suggested, “It’s got a real ‘bite’ to it.”

“Already trademarked, from all the way back in the Garfield administration,” he admitted, referring to the famous incident when a cartoon cat was elected President and members of that secret organization had him assassinated after only 4 months in office.

I could see that I wasn’t getting anywhere with my refusal, and needed to cut this off before tedium tainted the epilogue dialogue. “What’s that, over there?” I yelled, pointing with one hand and flicking a switch on the meeting room control panel with the other after Satan had looked away. Suddenly, the holographic projector zombie apocalypse was on again, although this time the undead were wearing North Korean military uniforms and all had Kim Jong-Un haircuts. The Pindars had modified the program parameters especially for me. Anyway, Zombies creep Satan out in general, as do Asians, and yelling a lame excuse about being late for a meeting, he was gone, leaving only a strong sulfur odor.

[Deep Knight]

The Return of Lady P
An All New Deep Knight Adventure
Epilogue 2 – I See By Your Outfit, That You Are A Nudist

I thought that my #2 adventure about #1 was over, but fate as a way of continuing to showering you with its golden blessings even after you were certain its bladder is empty. This time it wasn't Satan, but the all-new Black Dragon Society's Master and CEO. As I looked at his hairy visage and face, I wondered who he might really be without holographic or shape-shifting assistance, if anyone. But that would have to wait until later, after his startling offer!

"As you may know, Mr. Knight, many luxury cars use diesel engines which inject a liquid urea solution known as Diesel Exhaust Fluid or DEF into the exhaust gas to reduces nitrous oxide (NOx) emissions. This isn't just to be nasty, like truck driver's whose big rigs use basically the same system, but because when blended into hot exhaust gas, the urea releases ammonia, which provides the right chemistry to let a final catalytic converter convert NOx in the exhaust stream into nitrogen and water."

"I'm familiar with it, being originally an Illuminati conspiracy," I lied, looking it up on my smart-phone as fast as I could type on the tiny keyboard. You might think I was taking a chance by assuming it was "one of ours," but I was pretty confident, knowing almost everything new is.

"We have discovered that the luxury market is willing to pay a substantial premium for exclusive designer urea, such as that sourced from Supermodel urine. When we heard this, we immediately thought of you, your reputation, and your business. It was like a match made in heaven, Mr. Knight."

I had to admit that he was right. "You're right," I admitted, "but your information on my dating patterns is a bit out of date, now that I'm married I'm strictly monogamous, except as necessary for work, survival, or when I can get away with it. But the lines out my door, down the stairs, and around the block are gone. Sorry."

The new head of the Black Dragon Boys looked upset, or could of under his exceptionally-long, white, facial hair. "You have disappointed me, Mr.Knight. Our analysis showed a great profit in this venture, the 1% Elites like their conspicuous consumption and this is one way of showing the world you won't settle for less then the best when it comes to your car's urea."

He had a point, and I had to admit that I occasionally had the itch to sexually satisfy tens of thousands of desirable-in-a-trendy-fashion-sort-of-way women during a long afternoon. But I could also see my trained-assassin wife getting a trifle upset when she found out, which could be unhealthy for both me and the Supermodels. I was torn, and conflicted, on one side Adam Smith's invisible hand of the pee, er, free market was tugging at my loins, and on the other side there was self-preservation. Sure, one choice would mean my certain death, but the organ whose opinion counted most was leaning heavily towards it. Luckily, my beautiful wife had wiretapped all of my means of communication, and broke in.

"What about putting cameras into all the woman's bathrooms in trendy restaurants and bars? When the facial recognition software recognizes a supermodel, we could divert the pee-pee from that stall for packaging and shipment."

"Not only that," I added, "but if country-music-loving truck drivers use urea in their big rigs too, there's gotta be some sort of market there. Maybe country music or women's wrestling stars? Or the actress who played Daisy on the Dukes of Hazard?"

"The source would be too expensive," lamented the Black Dragon Elder, "the last time I asked Dolly Parton for a quote ..."

"But, we wouldn't have to tell our customer's the truth," I blurted out, a light having come on in my brain, "Unlike the top 1%, how would any of them know what high-end pee smells like? We simply add a few funky-smelling chemicals to garden-variety urea, paste a picture of some big-haired tart with too much makeup on the label, and it will sell like hotcakes at truck stops from Tucson to Tucumcari, Tehachapi to Tonapah."

Needless to say, it wasn't long before the Draconian Galactic Empire wasn't our only customer. Like they teach you in business school, it's good to diversify. Like any new product on the market we had to send our sales people into the field to lean on distributors, but after a few of them ended up pushing daisies the rest got the message and fell into line. Nothing like the free market for rewarding risk takers and unprincipled thugs. Is this a great country or what?

[Deep Knight]

Maybe having Vladimir hide out at the Clinton Estate wasn't such a good idea after all ... oh well, all's well that ends well.

Last Lyin' of Defense
CORONER’S REPORT: Woman Found On Clinton Estate Was Dead 15 Years, Suffered Torture And Malnutrition
Stryker

According to the coroner at Quantico, the woman whose remains were found at the Clinton Compound in Chappaqua, New York suffered years of torture and starvation and likely died pregnant. Miriam Loomis disappeared when she was 20-years-old and likely died at 35, according to the coroner.

That puts her death somewhere around 2000, but the coroner says there’s about a three to four-year margin of era. The Clintons moved into the home in Westchester in 1999 where the body was found and bought the home next door in Chappaqua just recently so Chelsea would have a mansion to live in when she came to visit.

The coroner also added that the woman was likely held against her will, tortured, raped and repeatedly impregnated. Her cause of death was likely malnutrition but could have also been a wound or blunt force trauma not detectable on skeletal remains. Her bones showed signs of multiple breakages and her hips bore signs of at least three pregnancies. There were knife marks on her facial bones and bone spurs on her wrists and ankles, indicating a long history of incarceration and torture.

According to the lead investigator, Special Agent Opus McGinty, the investigation now has to turn to where this woman was possibly kept and who had access to her for burial when she dies. Obviously, the first stop will be to question Bill and Hillary Clinton, who are currently out of the country.

We’ll keep you updated as the story progresses.

[Deep Knight]

Ms. Oyl has made it personal.

Tuesday, June 6, 2017
Truth About Obama’s Deep State Leakers

BREAKING: Trump Just EXPOSED The Terrifying Truth About Obama’s Deep State Leakers - It’s BAD
...
President Trump has cracked into the deep state network and exposed traitor leakers.

Deep state actors have hindered the ability of President ...
...
We should expect to see more arrests in the coming days as the FBI hones in on additional sources of illegal leaks. GOOD. Let’s get that swamp drained!

Posted by Olive Oyl at 5:32:00 PM


Totally untrue. First of all, as I made clear in my story, I turned down the leadership of the "Deep State" conspiracy, being a man of action and not a desk-bound bureaucrat. He Who Was Not Be Named withdrew his offer to name it after me, so technically the "Deep State" doesn't exist. Furthermore, the whole "leak" thing is false. Sure, my Reptilian shape-shifter partners and I are in a business often involves urea, and we all know where it can come from. But our business doesn't controls the supply chain anywhere near the "taking a leak" phase of production, honest. If Olive wants to drain the swamp like she claims, I suggest she's looking at the wrong plumbing fixture.

[Deep Knight]

The tireless investigators at NESARA News have ferreted out that the name "Deep State" is incorrect now that Batman "The Dark Knight" has taken over as CEO.

Friday, June 9, 2017
the Senate Did Not Challenge Comey
...
Now, more than ever, we need to be praying for our nation, and specifically for President Donald Trump. Even before he had won the election in a stunning defeat of the Obama-Clinton regime, the Dark State had already put their diabolical scheme in place to de-legitimize this President. It has been a never-ending battle that continues to this day, and no where was that more obvious than in the testimony before Congress of former FBI director James Comey.

Understand this: this Dark State attack is not merely an attempt to assassinate the character of Donald Trump. This is a direct attack on the PEOPLE that elected this maverick president to office.

When you see government officials lying, scheming, and destroying the character of President Trump and his team, then you need to know that it is an attack on YOU.

Posted by Olive Oyl at 10:29:00 PM

[Deep Knight]

The Covfefe Incident
An All Even-Newer Deep Knight Adventure
Prologue – Murder on the Installment Plan

Harsh experience has taught me to lead-off my stories with a two-fisted action scene and lurid descriptions of death and destruction. Not to forget rivers of blood. Unfortunately, since the new administration has come in, I’ve been asked to keep a “lower profile.” Not that ANY politician who won ANY election didn’t owe it all to selling his or her soul to Satan, but that doesn’t mean they remain friends once in power. A case in point is the current resident of the White House, who was buddy-buddy with the Prince of Darkness until Trump squelched Satan’s idea of starring in a “Devil’s Apprentice,” reality show, and the relationship deteriorated from there. Bottom line, the Federal Government’s and New World Order’s alliance was strained to the breaking point, and the Council of The Seven was anxious not to have one of my action scenes further weaken it. Like that time in Capistrano when Pat Boone was killed and the swallows never returned.

But fate intervened to provide a suitable incident as I was bicycling to work. As you know, I’ve been banned from all major types of public transportation due to the collateral damage caused by assassination attempts. Being too cheap to pay for downtown public parking, I had been reduced to this solution until the NWO Headquarters replacement garage is finished. Wearing a different brightly-colored Lycra® Spandex jersey and helmet every day had kept my legions of enemies off my trail throughout the late spring, and I foolishly thought I was still safe. Right up until the time I was surrounded by “pack” of riders, all in camouflage-pattern militia uniforms. I was being attacked by Freewill’s Northern Michigan Unorganized Militia!

Fortunately, none of the boys had learned how to ride and shoot at the same time, so when they took one hand off the handlebars to grab their gun, they tended to veer right or left sharply into traffic or other road hazards. A dozen or so were eliminated this way before they got off their first shot, both reducing their numbers, and giving me ample warning. And, there’s nothing like the sickening “crunch” of a human body as it gets mashed into a pulp by a 16-wheeler to start your morning off right. Not to mention the resulting river of blood.

I quickly deployed my Kevlar body shield and flicked off the safety on the 40 mm recoilless cannon hidden in my bike’s headlight. Jumping a curb, I peddled furiously down a crowded sidewalk until, flanking my less-nimble opponents, I was able to return a deadly fire of exploding shells and flesh-ripping shrapnel. The only survivor amongst either my attackers or the many pedestrians and motorists surrounding us was Freewill himself, who had cowardly held back once the shooting had started, and was now cycling away as fast as his spoked-wheels could carry him. I turned in hot pursuit!

Freewill’s ineptitude proved his undoing, as he tried to jump a high curb and instead came to a sudden stop. Or rather, his bike did, his forward motion was arrested a split second later. His butt having slipped off the seat, this stoppage was accomplished by a dangling part of his anatomy that contained some rather sensitive components getting crushed against the frame. As for the level of pain this causes, let’s just say that seeing stars was the least of his problems. I gently added to his discomfort by shoving my tire pump where the sun didn’t shine, and then twisting it to start its timer. Being a combination inflation device and grenade, it effectively removed the last of my attackers, even though it did leave me with little recourse if I had gotten a flat. When you live on the edge, you have to take chances.

Slipping and sliding in the river of blood that covered the roadway, I rode back to a good vantage point, took a picture for my webpage, and continued to work. I hardly had time to shower and change before word came from “downstairs” that Satan and all 13 members of the Council of Twelve wanted to see me immediately! Something big was definitely up, our previous meetings being so annoying that they had been avoiding having more. Any fool could see that something had given them no other choice, and that fool was me!

To be continued…

[notorial dissent]

Oh. Dear. The image of DK in lurid spandex burned in to my mind, I can't unsee, there goes the last of my , thanks to DK I am now having to buy it in wholesale lots.

[The Observer]

Oh. Dear. The image of DK in lurid spandex burned in to my mind, I can't unsee, there goes the last of my , thanks to DK I am now having to buy it in wholesale lots.

This is why I only read only every fifth word of a DK Adventure, thereby giving me a 80% chance of avoiding unpleasant images. Coincidentally, I get through the story 80% faster and reduce the lies and exaggerated claims by 80%.

[Deep Knight]

The Covfefe Incident
An All Even-Newer Deep Knight Adventure
Chapter One – Vowel Shifts in the Middle Ages

The message that had me rushing to the conference room next to The Big Guy’s office was in error, it wasn’t the Council of Twelve but representatives of The Five Families that wanted to see me. As you know, The Five Families consist of the 15 Illuminati bloodlines that rule the world, so there are 13 members just like the Council of Twelve. An easy mistake to make. Still, if I had thought I had dodged a bullet, I would have been mistaken. Luckily, I was only half right.

“Greetings, Agent Knight,” said Satan formally, eschewing his normal banter such as “How’s it hangin’, numb-nuts?” Which was OK with me. “We have sent for you because our world lies at the brink of destruction.” He cleared his throat and tried to look serious, which is hard when you have sulfur smoke wafting out of your ears and nostrils. “Honest, patriotic citizens are up in arms because they can clearly see that the Chemtrail program didn’t stop with the new administration. We had anticipated this, and cleverly changed our strategy to only spray when it was dark or overcast, but the idiots in Washington sent the plan to the people building the border wall instead. This not only caused the sky to remain crisscrossed by trails, it prevented the wall from being built in the first 100 days. Now they’re blaming us.”

Satan held up what looked like an expensive restaurant’s open menu folder. It had a paper mounted on its right side with a giant, bold signature at the bottom. “This is an executive order eliminating the Illuminati and transferring all of our agents to exclusive hotels and golf clubs around the world. Since the government works for us and not vice versa, it’s a meaningless gesture for ‘the base,’ of course. But it shows you how badly things have deteriorated.” The Illuminati bigwigs gathered around the table all nodded in agreement, which of course is what anyone would do if they knew their chairs contained deadly devices that would be immediately activated if they didn’t. Sure it limits discussion, but on the plus side meetings never go over their scheduled times anymore.

“I hope you’re not thinking of sending me over to the White House to make friends,” I objected, “The Donald and I have never gotten along. Can I help it that all of his wives and girlfriends slept with me multiple times during their modeling careers?”

“We’re not talking about love or whatever it is you do in private,” observed the Prince of Darkness, a wry smile on his blackened lips, “but war! It is our belief that we are finally in a position to take over openly, and not just though obscure symbols on the backs of dollar bills! The final battle has begun, or rather, will begin shortly after you and your staff come up with a foolproof plan! You have until the end of the business day.”

“But, but, but…” I objected, sputtering, “That’s ridiculous. It’s not enough time and the only staff I have to help me are the Slice Girls, whose skills outside of sex and homicide are limited.”

“Of course you’ll have help!” the Devil assured me, “We can lend you the secretaries for the Committee of the Nine, the Gang of Eleven’s staff of lawyers, and the Chorus of the Thirty-Three and a Third lock stock and barrel. Oh, and least I forget, Hillary Clinton and Vladimir Putin.”

As if by cue, the last two mentioned “helpers” stepped out of the shadows, holding hands and grinning like schoolkids. I winced, thinking about our last couple of adventures together and the fallout that ensued. “OK,” I admitted, “they can come along as long as they agree to follow one simple rule. No getting involved in anything having to do with peeing this time. No acts, references, or even having to watch videos. I’m deadly serious.”

Satan, and a couple of the members of the council, looked disappointed, but finally agreed to my terms. I hated to be a buzz-killer, but quite frankly I had been exposed to enough urine in the last few months to last a lifetime. Not only was my psyche scarred and carpets stained, but during the last case the smell had started to cling to my work clothes, such as black ninja suits and Kevlar vests. I motioned for Vlad and Hillary to follow me, made the Illuminati hand signal for “prepare some office space and fill it with the personnel promised,” and went out to meet the deadline or die trying!

To be continued…

[Deep Knight]

The Covfefe Incident
An All Even-Newer Deep Knight Adventure
Chapter Two – Determining Mold Types by Parting Lines

It was almost 4 weeks before I got back at the “end of business.” Ready to get the business for my tardiness, I swallowed hard and opened the door to Satan’s steamy and sulfurous office. Unfortunately, Satan had taken a liking to me (creepier than getting chewed out), and was willing to listen to my lame excuses.

“Just as we were getting started, Vladimir remembered that he had this G20 meeting thing, and rushed off. If only Trump had been there we could have arranged a private meeting or two and taken care of business, then and there, but it wasn’t to be. Then, Hillary caught wind of her paramour having a wild party with a half a dozen Hamburg girls and two dozen hamburgers (they have a McDonalds there, and Putin is a big fan of big macs). What they did with the sesame seed buns, pickles, and special sauce was disgusting, I’ll send a video to your phone. She left to go to Paris in a huff, looking to hook up with their hunky new cougar-loving President for Bastille Day (La Fête Nationale, the French 4th of July, held fashionably late on July 14th). Again, if we could only have lured our President there at the same time Hillary’s homicidal expertise would have made short work of the matter. Luckily things didn’t work out with the foxy Frenchman, and Vlad burning up the phone lines apologizing brought her back to work on our “tiger team,” but only after more than a week with both of them incommunicado. Sometimes I think they fight on purpose just to have intense make-up sex, a dangerous game when both parties have access to nuclear weapons. “

“A likely story,” agreed The Prince of Darkness, “I heard that you went on vacation at the start of July to take advantage of the 4th holiday, and forgot to take along the text you had already written. Then, almost immediately after your return, you turned around and traveled for work. By the time you got back to the story, actual events had overtaken you, and made your story line too close to reality to sidestep the ‘no politics’ rule.”

I had to laugh at the devil’s naiveté. Luckily, he wasn’t naked like the last time I laughed at him, and he didn’t once again jump to the wrong conclusion. I quickly set him straight, but for some strange reason he continued to doubt my veracity.

“What about reports that Trump was not only at the G20, but had at least 2 private meetings with your supposed friend Putin? And I understand he was in Paris on Bastille Day, sniffing around Madame Macron, who he thought was in ‘such good shape.’”

“Fake news!” I explained, “The lame-stream press is always trying to make a liar out of me because they’re jealous of my sexual stamina. In reality it was his #3 clone, the one that had the big mouth on that bus with Billy Bush. The real Donald Trump was seen playing golf in an unrecognizable disguise at a dozen or so of his own clubs during that time.”

Satan rolled his eyes, which I suddenly realized were badly bloodshot. Since his eyes glow red like hot coals anyway, I hadn’t noticed it before, but now that I realized he was doped to the gills on “killer weed.” The fact that he kept taking “hits” from a “bong” confirmed my speculation. Adjusting my alternative facts to be even more fantastic, I spun a story that even new agers wouldn’t believe, but the big guy lapped it up, even the part about the underground airport runways. It’s sad to see a brilliant evil mind like his wasted, but since it was working for me I didn’t have a problem with it. By the time I left he was under the impression we had made great progress in achieving our goals, and singing the “Gliddy glub gloopy, nibby nabby noopy la, la, la, lo, lo” section of that “Good Morning Starshine” song from the musical “Hair.”

To be continued…

[Deep Knight]

The Covfefe Incident
An All Even-Newer Deep Knight Adventure
Chapter Three – Glibly Grubby Goopy, Fibby Flabby Floozy, La, La, La, Lo, Lo

Getting together with Hillary is always an issue. Don’t get me wrong, I liked Hillary when she was young and still knew how to party. She could match you flaming-tequila shot for shot, and get all the guys in a bar howling when she danced topless on top of tables. But now that she has gained the reputation for sounding like your first wife giving testimony during the divorce proceeding, she’s a lot less fun to hang around with. Especially when she only has eyes for Vladimir Putin, Russian dictator and, until recently and only in his mind, my suitor. It’s all too unbelievable to believe, but suffice it to say that when the man criticizes harmless alternative lifestyles and outlaws them, he should start at home. So I had to admit I owed her one for getting him off my back, not to mention a few favors I owed her husband Bill from the days we raised hell together down south. Like that time we drove 400 cases of Coors beer from Texarkana to Atlanta in 28 hours… But that didn’t matter now, we needed to cooperate and come up with a plausible plan to rule the world, or ready ourselves for the chopping block!

I started my mixing cocktails, my own signature “Deep Knight Flip,” a mixture of super-premium vodka, lemon juice, whipped egg whites, cough syrup, and a lemon twist. Gently stirred, never shaken. The “flip” comes when the cough syrup kicks in. Then to a brainstorming session. Vladimir wanted to keep doing the same thing, only more so. You know, hacking, stacking, racking, and cracking a few heads using his cyber army of somewhat-Asiatic hoards. That this would be counter-productive and generally not work was beyond the point, Satan wouldn’t consider it innovative enough to get me out of the doghouse. Strangely it was Hillary that came up with an all-new approach. That was OK by me, my forte is, ahem, extreme sexual stamina and the only “thinking” this usually requires is learning to delay orgasm by recalling the names of baseball players or imagining Ted Cruz naked.

“I’m a big fan of ‘Game of Thrones,” she announced, which was no surprise since Trump got it right when he said she was the inspiration for Queen Cercei, although he was strangely quiet about her husband, King Robert Baratheon, being fashioned after him). “I understand there’s the equivalent of a fantasy football league that’s been built around the show. Every season people pick characters and groups as their “team,” pay their entry fee, and when they get air time and ‘win’ or say something pithy, they get awarded points by a reviewer. The winner at the end of the season gets a big monetary prize, but not so big that Bill and I still don’t make oodles of money.”

“Why don’t we make a fantasy White House league, with people picking Trump and his associates, and getting points for getting in the news and in the base's mind 'winning?'” she continued. “The infighting we’ve seen so far would be nothing compared to what would happen if they got a fan base who would make money when they got more ink or face time.”

“Is wery wonderful idea, daalink,” oozed Vladimir in is best honey-thick voice. “but what if they are trying to get facey time on TV by doing right thing? Could to being wery risky and dangerous.”

“Not if we only gave them points for doing things that were counterproductive and damaging,” I said, my enthusiasm for the idea showing. It sounded crazy and stupid, but that was just how Satan liked ‘em. Hillary, organizational whiz and fallen woman that she is, fleshed-out the thin areas, filled-in the details, and fattened-up the steers for market. By the afternoon we had a plan of subversion and subterfuge that literally dripped evil, with time to spare. Which meant we just had time for a short-but-violent action scene!

As if materializing from nowhere, we were confronted with digitally-produced Government commandos, each a mindless biological assembly programed to kill without mercy. Sure to be a big hit when they’re shown at COMDEX. We later found they were made by FAXing a drawing of a 2D printer to an adjacent office, and the 2D printer “printed” a primitive 3D printer, which in turn printed a series of more sophisticated ones that could handle a biological matrix and literally print synthetic ninjas. After that, making a few hundred deadly assassins while the office staff was looking the other way was easy. Fortunately, the biological material has strength issues unless it's properly aged, which our print-n-play assailants weren’t, so when they attacked us using martial-arts “moves,” appendages and limbs started breaking off. The skin was like process cheese slices, muscle similar to textured vegetable protein and the bones resembled doggy treats. But even though the body tissues resulting gore were synthetic, the effect was still horrifying! If not in a classic sense, at least in a technical kind of way. After we administered a few groin kicks, what was left of our attackers were writhing on the floor in pools of sticky opalescent-green blood-like fluid. Now short on time, we sent a squad of sadistic secretaries with barb-wired covered baseball bats after them to clean up, and with a killer Powerpoint presentation for the Big Guy, went off to give our pitch and meet our fate.

To be continued…

[Deep Knight]

Good Morning Starshine as sung by Oliver

[Deep Knight]

The Covfefe Incident
An All Even-Newer Deep Knight Adventure
Chapter Four – Non-Parametric Regressions

Modern corporate day-trading of stocks is done “by computer,” not only to make the trades, but to tell the traders when to buy and sell. Once proud traders used to do financial analyses to tell which companies had the greatest potential for the kind of profits that made stocks go up, now days they use “computer models.” Basically, sophisticated mathematical processes can be “tuned” to “filter out” random variations or “noise” and give you underlying trends, or “signal.” Just like the stuff on your cable TV is was supposed to do after it went digital, only this works. It didn’t matter how solid or bogus a company was, if it was going up or down these programs anticipated it before anyone else, and made the companies that hired the mathematicians filthy rich.

Only, the mathematicians didn’t get filthy rich, almost all of them made modest salaries and found themselves easily replaced if they asked for more. So, they moved into online fantasy football, where the found the same basic algorithms that forecast stock trends could forecast players’ performance. One article I read estimated that 90% of the winners in these online “get around the laws about gambling” are such mathematicians and their programs. So much so that online leagues have lost popularity, and people are going back to local or work “leagues,” untainted by bad science.

This is where our brilliant and fiendish plan came in, we would provide a haven for these rejected “computer nerd aces,” who would pour money into our gambling, er, game of skill. This would light a fire under the Trump lovers and haters who would naturally be attracted to an online political fight, especially one that’s down and dirty. And people would be able to put big money where their big mouths were, money the Illuminati could siphon off to sweeten the deal. Of course, we didn’t tell Satan any of this in our Power Point presentation (except for the embezzlement part), it was way too technical. Say anything about math and science and his eyes glaze over. Instead we included slide after slide of positive projections in forceful bullet points, almost none of them supported by the facts, over pictures of sultry women in lingerie. Getting a thumb’s up from a visually enthusiastic Satan was easy.

As I anticipated, the ads we put in little-known mathematics journals attracted large investments from the digital processing crowd, looking for new sheep to sheer. It didn’t hurt that the ads included the best of the erotic images from the presentation, but don’t tell Satan. He would be upset to learn his and math nerd’s taste in women were similar, especially considering he used to torment the smart kids when he was in school (a talent he leveraged into a successful career). Once we had some big money “awards” to advertise, political talk shows and online blogs jumped on the story, and it went viral. Soon, tens of millions of Americans were betting tens of billions of dollars in the fates of Cabinet members and White House staffers. Over $100 million changed hands when Anthony Scaramucci got fired alone.

Also, a funny thing happened. It turned out that the sophisticated mathematical models were completely inadequate to anticipate the current political situation and didn’t give their users an advantage. In fact, the big winners were those who by some combination of dumb luck picked “players” no expert would have given a chance to. This was all good for us, the idiots trolling political forums were hearing that people even less informed and insightful than them were making big bucks and they joined in droves. And, instead of relying on “alternative media,” they were drawn to our own lame-stream press to get their daily “scores,” a press that was easily manipulated as 99.99% of the reporters got their thankless, poorly-paying jobs by selling their souls to Satan (go figure).

It was only a matter of time until White House players started to act stupidly to get points for themselves in our fantasy league. That time was less than 24 hours. I understand they all got the “app” on their smartphones, and have it set up to notify them whenever there’s a change. In retrospect we should have know this was dangerous, and that sooner or later it would lead if not to the Covfefe Incident, something almost as bad.

To be continued…

P.S. The part about mathematicians, stock market forecasting, and online fantasy football leagues that use real money is true. My apologies, it won’t happen again.

[notorial dissent]

We'll let it slide this one time.

[Deep Knight]

The Covfefe Incident
An All Even-Newer Deep Knight Adventure
Chapter Five – Is Your Refrigerator Running?

I’m sure anyone who has read the headlines on a newspaper, listened to even 15 minutes TV news, or any late night comedy show knows, our plan was successful beyond even our inflated beliefs. The Trump Whitehouse was in chaos and disarray, well, actually more of the latter so it should be disarray and chaos, but you know what I mean. Backstabbing, accusations of auto-fellatio, cat-fishing and moon-dogging were only what had bubbled into public view, in the “halls of power” themselves it was even worse. Let’s just say that no one walked those corridors after dark alone or unarmed. I only had two complaints, the first that they made it too easy, taking away the challenge and its zest. The other was that it didn’t seem to affect the President in any way, much less weaken him enough for the congressional buzzards to circle, like they did with Millard Fillmore. This was no doubt from his years in real estate, an industry where backstabbing, betrayal, and cheap paint that came off the first time you tried to clean it were standard operating procedure.

Satan, who only knows what he sees on the TV was pleased with our supposed progress, but I knew it wouldn’t last. I needed a new strategy, preferably one I thought of instead of Hillary. If this comspiracy became her baby and actually worked, there would be no way Satan would be able to say “no” to her about another run in 2020, and Reptilian Pindars or not, he would blame me. And it was a good thing that I did a little thinking for myself, especially given Hillary’s ludicrous plan.

“Using witchcraft, I can cause a total eclipse of the sun on August 21st, extending from coast to coast. People will be terrified, not knowing that fireworks and beating on drums will scare the beast away and keep him from devouring our source of light and all life. But the superstitious common people don’t know that, and will be putty in our hands. When we give the word, they’ll turn on Trump like white turns on rice.”

I almost started to chant, “Lock her up, lock her up,” but decorum and all-too-much familiarity with her and her lover’s homicidal skills forced me to keep my cool. Besides, her silly ravings gave me an idea.

“What if,” I wondered aloud, “we caused an eclipse using Chemtrail technology, and had its path go right down the middle of the country. By keeping the drama ratchetted up at the White House, we would effectively control the news cycle, and keep this information from the American public until the last minute. Literally tens of millions of Americans might decide to drive a few hours to where the eclipse would be total, starting that morning. They wouldn’t have time to consider the effect on our highway system, and the massive traffic jams their abnormal driving behavior would cause. Much like all the kids leaving New York City for Woodstock in 1969 jammed up the NY State Throughway, only on every north-south road going into the path of totality. The effect would be devastating, with traffic completely shut down, and America’s infrastructure frozen. It might be years before the south could once again get maple syrup, or the north Georgia peaches.”

Hillary jumped on the idea and started to expand on it. Say what you want about her campaigning stamina and disgusting computer server practices, the lady is fast on the uptake and has an imagination perverse enough to even impress me. “If it’s a sunny and hot day they’ll keep their air conditioning and engines running, emptying their tanks. This will make removing them that much more difficult. Once their batteries run down and they can’t charge their cell phones any more, their contact with the outside will be broken, and chaos will reign. Desperate for water and food, roving bands will decimate local communities and further delay clearing the roads. It will be anarchy and death!” The broad smile on her face at this last thought was truly uplifting. “This will only work if the sky is forecast to be clear for viewing, but our weather control technology can take care of that.”

Vladimir Putin made a face, and almost spat out his disbelief. “You are both to being silly. Why would anyone be wanting to see sun going away. Happening every days at nights.” Like our president, Vlad has nothing but distain for “science nerds,” which explains a lot about his government.

“You don’t realize how many people are closet space buffs,” I explained, “adults who watched the moon landing or space shuttle when they were kids, and always wanted to see a total solar eclipse. This was also part of Illuminati mind control, we were conditioning their subconsciouses to accept a future ruled by dark galactic overlords, as well as to go see the Star Trek and Star Wars movies we were putting out.” I paused for effect. “By broadcasting certain ‘trigger words’ for the next two weeks, we should have tens of millions of drivers calling it feigning sickness Monday morning while making parking lots out of the interstate highway system.”

To be continued…

[Deep Knight]

The Covfefe Incident
An All Even-Newer Deep Knight Adventure
Chapter Six – The Valley of Darkness

The trigger words that we had embedded in the psyches of millions of American teenagers during Health and Hygiene classes (along with surliness and defiance) were “The,” “A,” To”, “Of” and “And.” Using every ounce of persuasion, suggestion and blackmail, we caused the broadcast, cable and print media to chock their prose full of these words. This, in turn, unlocked a desire in those who hear or read them to see the moon blot out the sun during the middle of the day. The triggers also negated those negative things associated with eclipses in the darkest corners of our minds. For example, during the 1970 eclipse that crossed the deep, rural south, literally thousands of vampires came out of their coffins, thinking it was night, only to get fried in public view when the sun reappeared. An episode of “True Blood” was loosely based on the incident.

The suggestion only influenced a few percent of the population to be interested enough to “just do it,” but that’s all we needed. When roads that normally see 200,000 vehicles a day, both ways, are swelled by 3% of the 30 million people for whom that road is the closest route to the total eclipse, those 900,000 extra vehicles crammed into a couple hour time period can cause problems. You betcha. We exasperated the situation by forcing hotel and motel owners near the band of totality to up their rates to $1000 per night. Crowded private campground spaces with no trees or shade were going for $350. Imagine if you were a family driving back from the Southern Florida Alps, where you had beat the mid-August heat amongst the still-snowcapped peaks, and ran into either these lodging prices or the traffic jams. Ouch! And such vacationers are the President’s base!

But, as inept as they might look from the outside, the Trump administration realized what we were doing and sprung into action. Using a certain cable news outlet as a conduit, they spread doubts about whether “the science on eclipses was settled.” A parade of “eclipse deniers” (they prefer “eclipse skeptics,” but my two-fisted stories wouldn’t be the same if I held my punches) poo-pooed the idea that “anything the moon could do could possibly affect the sun.” After all, the sun was 27 million times more massive! The jovial group from the morning show burst out in laughter every time it was brought up. Several prominent “experts” swore that eclipses were fabricated as a way for astronomers to get research grants and “put America in its place.” InfoWipes hypothesized that it was all a plot to turn frogs gay.

But, as skilled as the other side was at common sense and propaganda, we had the advantage of centuries of preparation just for a massive population manipulation like this. I kinda always hoped it would be used to condition the public into accepting Soylent Green, but had no regrets as long as it pulled my chestnuts out of the fire. And neither was my wife, who is also fond of them in their present condition. As it turned out, the public accepted what the scientists said, hook, line and sinker. Not unlike someone who understood that science was the work of Satan (actually, his under-appreciated employees), still being thrilled when a pagan petroleum geologist told them they had oil on their property.

Satan, of course, was confused, both by the plan and the resulting charges on my expense account. Bribing Neil deGrasse Tyson isn’t cheap. He wondered if we couldn’t save money by cancelling the actual eclipse itself. After all, if all the potential viewers were already causing the traffic jams, what was the point? I had to admit that our evil minds had considered that very option, but the Administration’s response had forced our hand. It happening would both prove them wrong, destroying their credibility when it came to astronomy, and satisfy our spiteful needs to see him lose. Satan agreed, but sagely noted that such things hadn’t worked until now. But you would be wrong if you thought he wasn’t as keen on kicking them when they were down as we were. He had been really looking forward to hosting “The Devil’s Apprentice,” and The Evil One knows how to hold a grudge.

To be continued…

[Deep Knight]

The Covfefe Incident
An All Even-Newer Deep Knight Adventure
Chapter Seven – The Long Goodbye

The only problem with our clever plan was that it wasn’t happening fast enough. As it turns out, August 21st was the soonest we could schedule it based on celestial mechanics. You see, it has to be scheduled for a “dark of the moon,” just like a black mass, or astronomer types will realize something’s wrong. Satan, who wanted “daily updates,” got tired of the tedious countdown, and demanded immediate action. I tried to explain the “you have to wait for the planets to line up” thing to him, which he found so confusing he accused me of being on drugs. Not only was this insulting coming from someone with bloodshot eyes who was puffing on a large, ornate hookah while he was saying it, getting tested violated my stipulation about “no pee talk.” And people think conspiring against the common good is easy.

Luckily for me, we had recently picked-up Heather Ann Tucci-Jarraf in Washington DC. She had planned a meeting with The President to clue him into what was going on, so before it could happen we had the FBI, Secret Service, and Federal Trade Commission pick her up on bogus charges. Satan has a real bone to pick with Heather, as he would with any ex-lover who not only cleaned out his place in the Hamptons (even took the refrigerator), but tattled to the tabloids about certain nasty habits in bed. You have to admit that she had a point, crumbs from chips and crackers can be really annoying when you’re naked and sweaty, but don’t tell Satan I said so.

The President, focusing on other priorities at his golf club in New Jersey, seemed to forget about Heather, leaving her to languish in woman’s prison. This made tormenting her a distraction at best, but you gotta put up with stupid assignments from the boss when you work for any large corporation, and the New World Order is no different. Taking our cue from the many women’s prison movies Hollywood has put out over the years, we surrounded her with sultry co-ed convicts in lingerie, sadistic lesbian guards, and a warden who once had been idealistic but over the years has become hardened to the system’s realities. To make sure the feel of the big house was grey and gritty enough, we dusted her cell with grey grit every time she was taken out to be deloused with a fire hose.

Descriptions and YouTube videos of Heather’s debasement held Satan’s interest for a while, but his attention span is notoriously short. People around Hell have been known to call him “The Two Minute Man,” not because of his sexual staying power, but his attention span. According to his wife, Gladys, his bedroom performance can be even more perfunctory, exactly to what degree depending on how many drinks she’s had. Bottom line, we needed something else to keep him busy during the next dozen days, and I gathered together the team to solicit ideas.

Putin looked sullen, no doubt Hillary had a complaint similar to Gladys’ above, and they were fighting again. Just because I don’t have that problem doesn’t mean I can’t show empathy for worthless failures who can’t get it up and shouldn’t even be called men, but others are less understanding. Especially when you’re the one left holding the bag, and Hillary had been doing way too much bag holding in the political arena to put up with it in bed. I silently hoped they would be professional enough to focus on the business at hand, but didn’t account for the “fighting equals hot make-up sex” factor. We didn’t get past the first dark agenda item before they were at each other’s throats, and not to nibble or give hickeys either.

Some might argue that Hillary started it when she brought up a graphics program named “Quick Draw” on her tablet. I can see that, but still think that when Vladimir started by quoting certain rude phrases he had read on t-shirts at a Trump rally, a line was crossed. A crossing so grievous that it not only made it unlikely they would ever make peace, it caused me to seek immediate refuge behind a bulletproof shield. Events only escalated from there. Certain things, once said, cannot be unsaid, because they say too much. I mostly blame Putin’s comments about Benghazi, but to be fair Hillary was far from innocent. She should have realized that most men are over-sensitive about the size of their behinds, especially when it’s already huge like Putin’s.

They threw every accusation but the kitchen sink at each other, filling gaps with insults, profanities, and a noise much like wolves growling. Much of what Putin said was in Russian, which of course I didn’t understand (we Americans avoid learning other languages because it’s demeaning). Hillary, raised to be a Communist, had learned enough in the Stalinist youth camps of her youth to understand the profanities and terms associated with 5-year plans. It didn’t help that she also knew the word for “limp” (поникший) and how to use it in a sentence. If Illuminati Security hadn’t intervened, our team room would have seen more destruction than it actually saw, which was described in the insurance claim as “of biblical proportions.”

To be continued…

[Deep Knight]

The Covfefe Incident
An All Even-Newer Deep Knight Adventure
Chapter Eight – Finally Some Action!

My world was falling in on itself, not only had Putin returned to Russia in a huff, Hillary, her heart broken and legendary temper set to “apocalypse,” was useless for planning evil. Her suggestions all involved her former lover and sweet revenge, although you might not want to call such things as evisceration “sweet.” Added to the rotten mix were new sanctions against North Korea by the UN which threatened to shut off that source of urea, raising our cost for the ammonia we were shipping off-planet. We had just enough cash on hand to cover supplies until the first check cleared, which in interstellar banking takes years due to the “no travel faster than the speed of light” thing. And shutting off the supply of ultra-premium “joy juice” to the reptilians would definitely be hazardous to the whole planet’s health.

Satan sensed I was blue during our morning “update,” and invited me to lunch at a new restaurant at the Illuminati Headquarters Food Court that he wanted to try, “Smashed Burger.” A “New Way of Burgerring,” the staff is so smashed from excess drinking they always get your order mixed up and you never know what’s coming from the grill. For adventurous eaters only. Satan ordered the “Southwestern Burger,” and he actually got a burger, but I don’t believe the green stuff on it was “fresh guacamole.” I passed on the food and got a cup of black coffee, which turned out to be an extra-large diet Dr. Pepper. I pushed it to the side.

“Deep,” mused The Evil One, “you gotta learn how to release stress, you know, get a hobby. Have you ever thought about collecting stamps?”

I opened my mouth to suggest how he could lick and where he could paste his stamps, but at that very instant I noticed that the restaurant’s staff were no longer acting “smashed." Instead they were calmly walking towards us, while drawing large caliber automatic weapons. I grabbed the unaware Prince of Darkness, knocking over my drink which, bubbling, ate through the floor. Our table and chairs fell though the opening this made, just as the first bullet passed over my head, almost giving my hair a new part.

We weren’t out of the woods yet, but luckily the Woman’s Steam Bath was located directly beneath the food court, and our fall was broken by a beefy Swedish masseuse named Olga. This didn’t even stun her, but it did make her mad. Really, really mad. So, when our pursuers pursued us by falling through the hole in the floor, invisible in the mist, she was ready to vent a little steam herself. It’s amazing how trained hands can rip someone’s spine clean out of their back, or grab their legs and split them like a turkey wishbone, before they know what hit them. Not to mention crush testicles so that they burst with a popping sound. Ouch. Satan and I “cleaned up,” by lobbing a few fragmentation grenades, salvaged off our well-armed-but-lifeless attackers, up through the hole in the floor. Sure, most of those shredded by grenade fragments were loyal Illuminati minions whose only crime, excepting those they do for work, was picking the wrong place for lunch. But as I always say, why take chances? And everyone “in the know” knows how He Who Must Not Be Named feels about collateral damage (he’s for it).

We were both unharmed, but scarlet-red Satan started to look a little green around the gills by mid-afternoon. The effect was rather “Christmassy,” but in the end it turned serious. I figured his burger not only contained unwholesome condiments, but was probably laced with every toxin known to man. Yet another ploy by our ungrateful President to eliminate us now that he thought he didn’t need us anymore. Satan’s constitution and digestive system can handle poisons one at a time, but combinations can be a problem. After rushing into the bathroom holding his mouth, the Big Guy crawled out almost an hour later, looking completely drained. His wife Gladys had to come up from Hell to help him back home, where the doctor told him to stay in bed until he regained his normal color (they still make house-calls in the infernal regions). He only gave me one directive between the dry heaves, “Get Trump!” But, I figured he would be out of action for over a week, so I ignored his call for quick payback. Instead I hatched a plan that would eliminate Trump, keep the ammonia flowing, and thwart prosperity for generations, with a single masterful stroke!

To be continued…

[Deep Knight]

The Covfefe Incident
An All Even-Newer Deep Knight Adventure
Chapter Nine – Dressed to the Eights

It began with a series of seemingly unrelated events that only the most paranoid schizophrenics would notice were signals to our Deep State agents. The bells on Masonic clock towers in the 22 places called the “Tri-City Region” struck 13 at 5 o’clock. Geese started to migrate neither South nor North, but East to follow the goose jam-band “Honk.” A giant sink-hole in Florida reverse direction and became the highest point in Palm Beach County. The moon was in the seventh house, and Jupiter aligned with Mars. Square dance “callers” at state fairs across the Midwest started calling dance steps unknown even to members of the USDA (United Square Dancers of America). The Rubicon had been crossed.

This was done to both keep our enemies guessing and Satan at home, the latter in bed recuperating from his sinister southwestern smashed sandwich. Not only were the stomach cramps and nausea horrible (as bad as what he does to his employees on a daily basis), but being a captive of his bitter and spiteful wife, Gladys, gave a new meaning to “damnation in Hell.” The mood at Illuminati Headquarters was festive, with champagne corks popping in offices and conga lines of dancing people in the halls, and I used this to my advantage as I underhandedly arranged events under the noses of the Powers That Be.

My plan was simple. First, I would use a holographic projection to make it appear that the giant dark planet Nibiru is about to crash into Earth (it’s actually in a parking orbit behind Uranus – no snickering!). This is NOT to be confused with Planet X, which is exactly opposite of the sun from us at all times, explaining why we can’t see it. It had a mirror civilization to ours, but they were eaten by carnivorous aliens in the 50’s. Luckily they didn’t notice our planet (the sun was blocking their view), and were soon in trouble themselves when visited by Lothar and the Hand People. But I digress, back to Nibiru (pronounced with a rolled “r”). The sight of the planet’s blackness during the solar eclipse’s totality will amplify the traffic-jam terror and sap the sanity of millions. It will fill the sky to a degree that suggests being 33 days away from an abrupt and planet-obliterating meeting, which will send rational thought fleeing the minds of millions in terror. I’ll provide a replacement, slavish subservience to the party line, using subliminal suggestions flashed in placement of the projected planet. Much like we do in TV ads. Abandoning their gridlocked cars as they did at Woodstock, our mind-controlled militia will march on whichever Trump golf course or luxury property the new President flees to. Like our Army of the Dead (which, unfortunately, is unavailable because they’re under contract to a cable TV series), they would throw themselves blindly into the fray, crushing all opposition by sheer numbers. Our surveillance cameras (one in every TV) would film the hoards taking care of business, kicking butts, taking names, and eating brains for an extremely-pleased Satan to enjoy later. I could see a senior management position in my future.

But a fly is apt to get into even the most unctuous unguent, er, ointment. This time the fly was the new President’s uncanny luck and our unholy alliance with Hillary. Still fuming, she returned to our team area intent on canceling her sweetheart deal with Russia giving them the rich uranium mine at Malheur Nat’l Wildlife Refuge. Key to their revived nuclear program (named “Chernobyl II”), the fuel would allow them to leapfrog over previous limitations and produce stylish, modern-looking, next-generation weapons. The olive-drab paint and stenciled lettering is gone, replaced by clean lines, a matte black background, and neon glowing highlights. What they might lack in thermonuclear yield would be more than made up by style. Hillary, treating the New World Order like her own organ, was pulling out all the stops to see that this would never happened. Which would normally be OK, but Malheur was in Oregon and the path of totality, and those unwashed fingers were apt to abandon her organ and get into my pie, which was frankly unacceptable. Still, I couldn’t risk getting her panties in a bunch and her running to Satan, or even worse, her good friend Gladys, so I bid my time and hoped her own tendency to over-plan would doom her schedule to delay after delay, pushing it out past the 21st, after which it will no longer matter.

To be continued…

Groove with Lothar and the Hand People

[Burnaby49]

Style? There's no nuke more stylish than Sideshow Bob's bomb;


Best before November 1959

As Bob said himself;

Damn it Bob. There were plenty of new bombs but you had to go for that retro fiftie's charm.