Old School Deep Knight Adventure

[Deep Knight]

A Fistful of Bitcoins
An Old School Deep Knight Adventure
Chapter 5 – The Naked and the Dead


It was almost time for our 4:00 o’clock meeting, and I had yet to settle on a plan. Sure, there were plenty of ideas from the alt wingnut web, but having picked a homerun as my first drive to the goalposts, for the second chukka I not only needed to make my shot from beyond the 3-point line, it had to get past the goalie. Satan was expecting me to show positive career growth, and you know the kind of tantrums he throws when he doesn’t get his way. What can I say, his antics give Hell a bad reputation.

One problem was the preponderance of posts about the Supreme Court pick. Not only did everyone have an opinion, they kept updating them to make sure they were in direct opposition to those of people they had fingered as their opponents (I avoid fingering opponents, unless they’re supermodels of course). Just sorting these posts out to get at actual conspiracies had taken up half my time, and half of “not enough” wasn’t cutting it, and neither was my Swiss Army knife. As the minutes ticked away and the seconds slowly ebbed, I realized I would once again have to stall for time.

Satan exploded that strategy with his opening words, “OK Deep, give! No more stalling for time.” I knew my only hope was to blurt out something stupid, make up a vague plan as I went along, then confuse the Big Guy enough he’ll think it would be brilliant if he only understood it. Since I had been thinking of the flurry of nonsensical Supreme Court posts right before the meeting, I went with that.

“Our next target will be the Supreme Court,” I explained slowly, trying to marshal my wits. “People who don’t know that they’ve sold their souls and do our express bidding, think that this could change the country! This they both like and dislike, each issue depending on which side their butt is breaded on, giving us another two-fer.”

“Everyone knows the ruling party has enough votes to get their way,” explained Satan, rolling his eyes, “and they also suspect the court does our bidding regardless of what they believe. They've been under my thumb since day one, except for the time Ruth Bader Ginsburg tried to leave the reservation, but I saw she was severely punished. Most people don’t know she used to be 5’ 8”. If the opposition had more votes or sufficient funds that would be one thing, but the way it is…”

“Exactly my point,” I said, acting as if my bullshit was somehow planned, “it’s that frustration on the opposition we exploit. They’ve had a good scare put into them, it’s gotten them all hot and bothered, so all we have to do is provide a dinner and romantic movie and they’ll let us grab their bank accounts. As for the other side, part of the reason they’re posting so much about this as it seems too good to be true. You know, so easy to do that it must be a trap.”

“That’s counterintuitive,” complained Satan, looking more confused that angry. I hurried to agree.

“Insightful of you, but I would have expected no less,” I said, almost puckering up and kissing the Big Guy’s behind. “The less sense it makes, the more confusing the motives, the more paranoid people will become. There’s nothing like a little fear to open up the ol’ pocket book. If everything goes to plan, both sides will feed of each other’s anxiety, growing like a chain reaction in a nuclear pile or at an orgy, only with less glowing in the dark or need for artificial lubricants.”

“I understand,” said the Prince of Darkness stupidly, rubbing his clawed hands together in fiendish pleasure, “we don’t even need to waste money having the regular Illuminati do anything; we let the two sides keep up the tension themselves.”

“I see you’re wise enough to anticipate my plan,” I lied, trying not to let my face show my surprise at the Big Guy actually having a good idea. “And we don’t need the expense of two sets of websites and troll factories, we have only one but make sure everything they put out is vague. Because Supreme Court nominees take pains not to commit themselves on policies everyone knows they will support hands down, the masses will assume the materials’ lack of specifics is part of that strategy. The vaguer the better.”

Our first website went up that evening, while I was sitting next to the pool at the Rothschild Castle estate, grilling burgers on the barbeque. It simply showed a video loop of the ascending mushroom cloud from an old atomic bomb “test” (that town will never defy the NWO again) with the captions, “The Supreme Court!” and “It’s Urgent You Contribute NOW!” The next day our agents put up a second one, stock footage from an old monster movie of masses of panicked people running down a street with a similar caption. A sane person would think that if it wasn’t so sick it would be funny, but we laughed all the way to both the hospital and the bank. There wasn’t even the delay I anticipated as people went “Huh?” they simply assumed whatever we were doing agreed with whatever they believed, and sent money. Thank heaven for the rancorous politics.

I decided to celebrate with a “strategic pause” designed to keep our opponents off guard, if by that you really meant Satan off my butt. That’s the problem with being successful in Hell, the better you do the more demands are placed upon you. And it always with some smarmy comment like, “They say that if you want something done right, find a busy man to do it! They know how to get things done.” which really means something like, “I believe in riding all my good horses into the ground.” Someone should tell Satan that people would like him better if he wasn’t so smug and sulfurous. Anyway, DC was sweltering so Velna and I took a trip up north to Canada, where we canoed, sang around the campfire, fished for walleye, trapped beavers, and conspired with Justin Trudeau. I tell you, Trump made a BIG mistake when he dissed the folks in the Great White North, or would of if they had any excess energy left after keeping warm in the winter.

Most people don’t realize how swampy Canada is, at least the places that aren’t rocky or frozen year-round. Spanish moss hangs low and gators patrol the shallows, looking for moose that have strayed too far from their herds. In the sky far above, mosquitoes keep a silent watch, knowing that dinner might unknowingly appear at any moment. Locals tell you that you can avoid their debilitating bites if you rub maple syrup on the soles of your feet and any exposed skin. It’s a creepy place, and I almost jumped out of my skin when a slimy green creature with fins and gills slowly emerged from the waters in the dank dark dampness…

To Be Continued…

[Deep Knight]

A Fistful of Bitcoins
An Old School Deep Knight Adventure
Chapter 6 – That Funky Damp Smell



The story so far: Deep Knight has led the Illuminati to play both sides against the other regardless of which side they’re on, opening vast profit centers. Shirking his responsibility and hiding from work, he took an undeserved vacation at a cabin on the Great Sugar Maple Swamp in Canada. He was relaxing doing rugged outdoor Canadian things and undermining its government, when suddenly a terrifying creature emerged from the swamp and crept towards him and his wife, Velna. As the bats nesting high in the paper birches nested, and the mosquitoes in the muskeg hummed, the two of them wondered what new horror was coming nearer and nearer, not to mention what the hell a “muskeg” was. Whatever it was it wasn’t human, although it kind of looked both human and fish-like. Maybe with a touch of frog or lizard, especially in smell, although please don’t tell the Reptilian Pindars I said so.

Then a voice that could never have come from human vocal chords pierced the darkness, “Excuse me, is this the Illuminati compound and cabin where Velna and Deep Knight are staying?”

“Harry?” called out Velna into the darkness, “Harry? Is that you?” She turned to me, “Don’t worry, it’s Harry, a friend of Kong’s.”

It had only been a fraction of a second before I had been about to prepare to pull the trigger on my bazooka (bullets won’t stop ‘em) that Velna recognized The Creature from the Black Lagoon and stopped me. All the 1950’s A-budget movie monsters are buddies, and this crowd called The Creature “Harry” because he had green scales, much in the way a big guy might pick up the name “tiny” or Kong himself “Twinkle Toes.” I had no idea what he was doing here or what he wanted, but given his connections I was willing to delay my homicidal urges and find out. See what the love of a good woman can do?

We invited Harry in for a cup of coffee, and at our rustic checkerboard-tableclothed kitchen table he told us his tale. As Satan’s mother had told Velna, Kong had invited him to DC for a visit, but apparently he ran into trouble at the Mexican border. Something about not having a passport, papers or visa, although I suspect the real problem was his color (green). So, knowing the porosity of the US-Canada border (which of course we take advantage of at every turn, very little of the syrup you put on your pancakes this morning had proper duty paid on it), he came up to the great white north. When he called Kong to explain the delay, the big ape suggested he contact us for help. Apparently Harry was planning on slipping across at the Boundary Waters Canoe Area, but hadn’t realized how big it actually was or how long that would take (foreigners always get confused by the scale of US maps, their puny countries like Brazil being so much smaller). Since we were returning by company jet, which never filed flight plans or got hassled by customs (please!), I was happy to have him ride along. Even though he was from “south of the border” (some unnamed tributary deep in the Amazon Basin) and the missing link between man and fish, he was a real gentleman and once he showered didn’t smell half bad.

I was only committed to a meeting scheduled with Justin Trudeau in the morning, done to pad my excuse for taking a vacation on the company dime (I know that I’m in control of the Rothschild fortune now - but how do you suppose it became a fortune?), so it was no big deal to cancel it. And to be even more honest, it was actually a pleasure to miss this big production number they were going to put on for us at the local Indian village along one of the upper lakes. Hundreds of feathered maidens in short buckskin skirts would dance, and Jeanette MacDonald and Nelson Eddy were scheduled to sing (not to be confused with Old MacDonald, he was the one who "had a farm"), which made missing it even sweeter.

But someday soon, the Canada of singing Mounties and trappers on dogsleds would disappear forever. It was already happening with the advent of electricity and paved roads, people were starting to hear that there was a place “south of the border, down Idaho way” where it was warmer in the winter. And once the news broke, it would be impossible to keep them in a less-than-fully-temperate climate without building that wall you hear people chant about. Entire towns would pull up stakes and leave en mass, not caring if this foreign language term was in italics or not.

“By the way, muskeg isn’t a tree or plant but a North American swamp or bog consisting of a mixture of acidic soil, stagnant water, and partly dead vegetation, which is frequently covered by a layer of sphagnum or other mosses,” explained Harry as we left. “I thought you would like to know, just in case it was important to the reader’s understanding what happens later.”

“My readers don’t care and frankly wouldn’t understand the hydrology of permafrost regions if it hit them in the butt,” I said insultingly, having no respect for the people who ultimately put bread on my table or concern about burning bridges behind me. “What they like are killing and sex, although not necessarily combined into a single act. Romantic fools!”

When we got back Satan was miffed at my absence, but our traveling companion had given me an idea for a new “Fistful” initiative, which I laid on him right then and there, daddy-o.

“Draining the swamp,” I explained, “or for that matter not draining it.” On our trip back I had mused on the fact that one man’s swamp draining was another man’s wetlands destruction. Even people who expressed concern about payoffs and corruption were less concerned when that corruption was on their side and those payoffs came to them. Once again playing both sides of both sides against the middle. And our poster boy can be your mom’s house guest, Harry, who’s out with her and Kong right now taking a tour of the National Mall.”

“On which side?” asked Satan, not yet in tune with my new “omnibus” approach to plots and ploys.

“Both, of course!” I exclaimed. “In one series we’ll portray him as a poor refugee from some ill-thought out land reclamation project, and in another we’ll dress him in an expensive suit and tie, and claim he’s a well-healed lobbyist. The scales and sliminess will only add to the effect I’m looking for.”

The Prince of Darkness once again giggled in glee, already counting the moneys that would pour into our coffers. The Illuminati supported the Washington swamp, of course, but just as obviously wanted to drain wetlands so we could exploit them to our profit. Which meant no arduous planning and polling to get the project started. The propaganda tools were already there, we just needed to mix ‘n match ‘em and we’ll be ready to rip! Then, another vacation, this time one to someplace a little less damp.

To Be Continued…

[Deep Knight]

A Fistful of Bitcoins
An Old School Deep Knight Adventure
Chapter 7 – Fame is the Name of the Game



People are funny. You never know what might suddenly catch their interest and become popular. Look at the Cabbage Patch Dolls of the 80’s, who would have ever expected that kids and grandparents-with-deep-pockets would have gone for them? Not Satan, and he still rants and raves over that missed opportunity (if you’ve ever seen these dolls, you would understand the HUGE potential for evil there). Or the TV character ALF from the same era (he WAS one of ours, getting the masses ready to accept the alien invasion, don’t cha know), who acted like a crabby old man but captured the imaginations of middle-school kids. Who are the up and coming movers and shakers of today (and you wonder why the world is going to Hell in a handbasket, hee, hee, hee). But even with my knowledge of things so bad they make ordinary bad things look good, I never expected the truly meteoric popularity of the Creature from the Black Lagoon, or his becoming America’s #1 sex symbol.

Don’t get me wrong, I’ve been around (and around, and around) and can understand why certain women would get off on a guy with webbed fingers and a bad reputation, but so many? I swear that it’s a madness of crowds thing, if one of them does something stupid the rest of ‘em have to try. From a modest beginning as the “face” of “The Swamp,” in internet meme ads about draining the swamp (both pro and con), he started branching out into beer commercials (“Stay thirsty, my friend.”) and guest spots on all the hot cable shows. And I don’t have to tell you what happened at Comic Con (it was in all the papers, those poor penguins). Then suddenly he’s on the cover of The Rolling Stone and Wheaties boxes, usually with some sultry a-list actress draped over his arm. It’s not that I’m jealous, but with scales and a smell like algal scum? Really?

Whatever my confusion, it was good for me at work. The fund raising effort that advocated draining the swamp was lucrative enough, but the “anti” contributions were vastly larger and broke a new record. Harry’s sudden popularity had made the swamp an alluring and happening place, and people started wanting to visit it with their families. Florida eliminated the huge Orlando area theme parks from their tourism ads, and put in Okefenokee panoramas and copperhead snakes instead. Reality TV jumped on the bandwagon, with Mama June feeding Honey Boo Boo to gators in the Everglades as a season finale. The most important result was a sudden reversal of support amongst Trump’s base for “draining the swamp,” substituting the urge to get one of them flat bottomed boats with the fan in th’ back and go recreate there instead. Naturally, elite liberals and environmentalists switched their position also, and suddenly wanted to drain and pave over wetlands with the fervor of a suburban developer. This didn’t mean that they stopped inviting Harry to their Hollywood parties, though.

One way or the other, the Harry was hot and in demand. He started doing stage shows with big Vegas-style production numbers, with fan palm fans and beads of congealed muck replacing feathers and sequins on the dancers. Women would throw their panties and room keys on stage as he did his closing number, “My Way,” some covered with mud and slime (the women and their undergarments, not the keys). The “dredged from the depths” look became all the rage, with even my beloved supermodels succumbing to the fad. Scum had become sexy, with the musty smell of slow rot the new Chanel Nº5.

When a tiger is let loose, the best place to be is riding it, and I took that old Eskimo proverb to heart. It wasn’t my job to understand people, just to keep the profit from their misery flowing into Satan’s coffers. And that golden flow showered down on us like you-know-what on you-know-who in a Moscow hotel room. I would be more specific, but getting you-know-who excited causes problems of its own, which I’ve learned to avoid (the hard way). Soon, our yearly goal was reached. We had made up this big rectal thermometer and tracked the amount as a red bar going up from the inserted bulb, with the caption “We’re Havin' a Heat Wave!” and had this little celebration ceremony when it reached one trillion degrees. Life was good.

Naturally, I was suspicious. This wasn’t my first rodeo, believe me I had rode “the bull” before, knew the ins and outs and what they smelled like, and didn’t like it. It’s those times when you least expect it that fate turns its ugly head and bites you in the butt. And even though my butt has been through the wringer, I wasn’t about to give up any more pieces of it if I had anything to say about it. Using me new authority, I called for a complete NWO lockdown, a draconian zero-tolerance policy on having fun, and a cancellation of the Saturday night sock hop. I wanted the troops to know I meant business.

With Illuminati Headquarters sewn up tighter than Capri pants on a LA waitress, when the storm came it hit from an entirely different direction than I had expected. Satan’s mom. Harry had been staying at their place, and of course picking up their bad habits (it’s hard to say “no” to Kong). Adrenochrome is not only the world’s most powerful drug, it has all the effects of other illegal pharmaceuticals. Like amphetamines it keeps you awake, like LSD it makes you hallucinate, like pot it gives you the munchies, like cocaine it makes you horny, and like opiates it puts you to sleep. Something for everybody. Well, it seems that the night before the boys had a contest to see who could have the largest overdose, and both Kong and Harry dozed off while in the hot tub. Satan’s mom, no doubt influenced by Harry’s popularity and allure to other women, and zonked out of her mind herself, tried to take advantage of their guest. As such thing always go, Kong was awakened by the scream Harry made when he woke up, and despite his girlfriend’s protestations that “nothing happened” got upset and took out almost 4 square miles of suburban DC. Almost as bad as what he and Godzilla did to Tokyo after they got drunk at that karaoke bar.

Satan blamed me. Somehow he felt providing Harry with an avenue to fame had been more at fault than his mother’s drug use or poor judgement when it came to “place and time.” Any self-respecting person would have been insulted, but I was wise enough to call his bluff instead. “You’re right,” I lied, “we’ll have to give up our unbelievably large income stream, but it will be worth it to keep peace at in your family. I’ll get right on it.”

“Don’t be so hasty,” blurted-out Satan, starting to sweat. “No use throwing the baby out with the bathwater. Maybe we could simply castrate Kong’s friend Harry, which would satisfy the Big Ape and substantially reduce that other thing.”

“I have the feeling it might not be as popular with mister ‘from the Dark Lagoon,’” I observed, knowing it to undoubtedly be the case.

“Maybe you could mention it off-handedly and lessen the impact,” suggested the Prince of Darkness. “You know, bring it up in casually in conversation.”

“Somehow I don’t think that the problem would be in how it’s presented.”

“Well, I’m sure you’ll figure something out. You have full authority to do so.”

“Look, if you want the money to keep coming in from the swamp scam, you’re going to have to put up with a Creature that has fully functioning equipment. Americans are suckers for authenticity. Kong will have to come up with something else that will satisfy his sense of honor.”

“Um, it wasn’t actually exactly Kong’s idea like I said before,” Satan admitted sheepishly, “it was my mom’s. A woman scorned and all that. For his part, Kong has almost forgotten about it. After all, he knew what he was getting into when he moved in with her.”

To Be Continued…

[Deep Knight]

A Fistful of Bitcoins
An Old School Deep Knight Adventure
Chapter 8 – Learning to Forgive Yourself



When I finished with Satan, I made a beeline to Hillary’s for a quick talk. Let’s face it, when it comes to power couples who have learned to forgive each other’s foibles for the sake of maintaining that power, she’s had some experience. I found her at Comet Ping Pong ordering a “triple cheese pizza” in plain view of the public, and regardless of the consequences of that or its caloric content.

“It’s Vlad,” she admitted, “he’s all caught up in hosting the World Cup and doesn’t have time for me. I suggested a visit, but with him getting together with Trump, and Trump wanting to lock me up…” She trailed off and looked soulfully into my eyes. “To tell the truth, Deep, I’m afraid the magic is wearing off.”

“Absence makes the heart grow fonder,” I observed, “and I understand our favorite dictator has been sleeping alone, or at least with only a small squad of bodyguards. I suggest patience, he’ll need something to wash the taste of listening to Trump out of his mouth soon, and that thing might just be yours.”

“Besides,” I continued in a new paragraph, “the results of the World Cup show he’s still ‘one of us’ and loyal to the New World Order. I didn’t think it was possible for anyone to fix it so France could win, after all, their mascot is a monkey waving a flag while eating a chunk of brie, but Pootin’ Putin did it.”

Hillary smiled (creepy), agreed her doubts were probably just paranoia from all the drugs she was taking, and turned her crooked talents to my problem in gratitude. “I suggest ‘time’ and ‘greed.’ The first cures all things, and the second is the most effective motivator, or so the Capitalists who are our only productive citizens believe. For some reason they don’t say it openly in those terms anymore, but that doesn’t make it less worth trying.”

“I’m not sure Kong quite grasps the concept of ‘money’ yet, never having had a shortage of it while mama was holding the purse,” I countered. “And if you suggest something like bananas or coconuts, that would be racist, or is that speciesist, that is to say, ‘wrong but still funny so I have to say it obliquely.’”

“What Kong wants is respect,” Hillary informed me. “Right now, when people say that someone is a ‘big ape’ it’s usually unflattering, and that’s only one example. But I don’t see how that can be used in an underhanded manner, so I suggest an old ploy I used to use against Bill, for example when he caught me bumping off Vince Foster. I sent myself dozens upon dozens of roses, all with cards saying things like ‘I hope you can forgive me for what I did - Bill.’ He was always guilty about sleeping with someone or something, so he figured it was absent-mindedness from the stress of office and he had actually sent the roses to counter a bimbo eruption. The bottom line was that we were ‘even,’ and I didn’t have to kill and clone him.”

“But, as far as I know, Kong isn’t seeing anyone else,” I argued, upset that Hillary had such a poor view of men and that I hadn’t thought of her plan first.

“I understand he hits the Adrenochrome after work to unwind and brace himself for Satan’s mom’s cooking, so I don’t think he remembers what he’s been doing most nights. And you know gorillas who live wild in the jungle, while their morals may not have sunk to your abysmal levels, but they’re low enough for this particular ploy. It’s a perfectly feasible story, his belief won’t be a problem.”

“So you’re saying I should conspire with Satan’s mom? I don’t think that’s a very good idea.”

“Oh no!” confirmed Hillary. “If she’s anything like her son, she would only try to use the information to squeeze out every drop of profit, undoubtedly causing the plan to fail. The way that old witch uses Adrenochrome I would be surprised if she can remember who has been cheating on who by sleeping with what for more than 10 minutes. She’ll probably take their arrival at face value, rip off her clothes, wrap herself in a bunch of bananas, and whisper sweet nothings in Kong’s ear. Mark my words.”

Instead of roses I sent orchids, even though they’re much more expensive I figured it was more in character, Kong being from the tropics. I was also charging it to work, and nothing was too good for Satan to pay for. Velna helped me compose messages for the cards. Mine were in the “Can you ever forgive me?” vein, while hers were more, “Like all men I think with my thingy.” I threw in a dozen boxes of chocolates, a fruit basket, a pair of whimsical flannel footie pajamas in Satan’s mother’s size too (they were on the same online ordering page), and specified express delivery. You may wonder why I didn’t choose erotic lingerie, for example a crotch-less pantie bouquet, but my strategy was to get her something more on the “cuddly” side to stimulate that pallet of feelings, ones that could lead to emotional healing. It must of worked, because in a couple of days Kong was back at work, Satan was happy, and the rebuilding of their relationship and the city could began.

As for Harry, Trump was nothing if not sensitive to popularity, so he hired him “on the rebound” to work for the administration. By this time the President had done a 180 degree turn on swamp draining, insisting that he had always been a supporter of higher water levels. Since we were playing both sides against the middle, we not only didn’t care, but saved money by letting Trump be the one now paying for the Black Lagoon’s most famous son. I took credit.

With things once again on track, my you-know-what was once again on the chopping block because I needed to come up with a sly-yet-clever plan to keep the floodwaters out. Satan, drunk with the power that good cash flow gives you, had opened the coffers and coughed up some real funding. But bold plans lead to cost overruns in business, and Hell was no exception. But why sugarcoat it? Having more money always leads to needing more money, and that vicious cycle obviously feeds on itself. The only way to have money is not to have money. This very same lesson had been impressed upon me in spades since taking over the Rothschild castle. To be honest, I wasn’t charging the company for everything I could get away with because I was cheap, but because I was hemorrhaging cash. Last week we had a leaky toilet, but after the plumber saw the name on the mailbox the bill ended up being over $700. And I think all he did was jiggle the handle.

But back to the plan. The swamp incident had taught me that one could never anticipate how a story would play with the public. I decided that advance planning was for chumps, and picked a random alt.wacko story to promote and plunder. All I had to do was close my eyes, pick a random one from a list, and announce it to the Council of the Twelve. We started, of course, with a chant.

Dies irae, dies illa
Solvet Saeclum in favilla la la
Teste Satan cum sibylla.
Quantos tremor est futurus
Quando Vindex est venturus
Cuncta stricte discussurus.
Dies irae, dies illa, dies illa la la la la la!

As we sat down in our chairs, most of the participants glanced down, either in silent reverence or to check their phones. Suddenly, Hillary gasped and started both screaming in anger and sobbing in anguish. Very few people can do both simultaneously, but the lady has more than a little “history.” Anyway, from what you could understand from what she was saying, she said, “Vladimir has betrayed me! I've been dumped for Trump! He’s told the world about Bill Browder and the $400 million! His ass is grass!”

To Be Continued…

[Deep Knight]

A Fistful of Bitcoins
An Old School Deep Knight Adventure
Chapter 9 – Learning to Blame Your Enemies



After ruining the end of what was meant to be a feelgood chapter, Hillary went on to ruin the beginning of this one. “Bill, or in full William Felix Browder isn’t his real name, of course, it’s an anagram of ‘werewolf billiard mix.’ The reference is obvious to us, of course, but the useless eaters and useful idiots are clueless.” She went on, that glean in her eye that means someone is about to lose a set of balls, or worse, “Vlad used him to transfer money, first for the Uranium One deal where I sold him 120% of America’s uranium. Then we bribed people to use our transportation company for that enriched weapons-grade old-bomb-garage-sale uranium we bought from Russia. Finally, there were frequent transfers that were personal for me, you know to buy a little something, like a Central American country.”

“What do you think it all means?” I asked, less curious about the answer than I was anxious to give Hillary a chance to stick her foot in it instead of me for a change.

“Who knows what Trump told him, promised him, debased himself by doing when I wouldn’t. After all, those … you know … were never meant to do that, or anything remotely like it even if you were weightless in space. Some people never learn that physical laws place limits on acting out our fantasies, or claim they don’t. I’m starting to wonder if it was all a ploy to find an excuse to flake out on our love. A love precious and rare, one I thought would last a lifetime…”

I let Hillary fade off into blathering, and concentrated on the sudden change in the balance of power. Forget playing both sides against the middle or vice versa, although that might just work, it was time give the floor to Satan and let him figure this out. After all, Putin was his “asset,” having been recruited during a drunken KGB blow-out at a work camp in Siberia.

“Damn it, I should have learned my lesson about dictators after WWII, but Vladimir seemed different. For one, he’s dumb as rocks and easily manipulated. Just look at him falling in love with Hillary.”

The dictator thing had come up too many times before for this to be a coincidence. I finally held Satan’s feet to the fire (pretty normal working conditions for him, given his workplace), and made him fess up about what went so horribly wrong that bad guys were fighting bad guys, and tens of millions of people were killed without us getting a cut.

“Err … all those dictators happening at the same time wasn’t exactly a coincidence,” confessed the Prince of Darkness, “we sort of gave them a little push when they were young. It was the end of the nineteenth century, a heady time where people had finally learned to bottle beer, and we thought we could use science to do anything. This guy named Freud got the attention of our R&D department, and pitched the idea of twisting selected people’s minds through childhood trauma. Through the right kind of psychological programming, we could create what Nietzsche called the “Ubermensch,” literally “a regular guy who drives a private taxi.”

“We’ve tried that through selective breeding,” commented one of the members of the Council of the Twelve (I don’t know which one, the old, grey, wrinkled ones in suits all kind of look alike), “to create the Kwisatz Haderach. Didn’t work, those Bene Gesserit sluts became obsessed with the physical part of the breeding, and when no one would date the Guild Navigators because of the way they looked they became jealous and the whole thing fell apart.”

It was just like the Big Guy to go into salacious details about some tangent not related to the main point. I motioned him on, and soon we were back on track.

“Stalin was easy, we sent him to a seminary to be an Orthodox priest. You saw firsthand what that did to Rasputin, or rather, Putin when he thought he was Rasputin. Come to think of it, that wouldn’t be firsthand, would it? Anyway, his mind was poisoned with discipline and religious instruction, a fertile ground for our demon seed. Mussolini was turned by seeing divas dressing backstage at Italian operas, Tojo toppled via a threesome at a Tokyo teahouse, and Franco from being ravished by flamenco dancers using lubed-up pink flamingos. Our motto was ‘Never Seen, Always Heard,’ but we let the trademark lapse and that damn Comedy Club Heckler’s Union scarfed it up.”

This was way, way before my time, and it was hard to envision Satan doing this level of advanced planning, but I took it at face value and pushed the fountain of all evil to continue. “Yeah, yeah, all solid psyops designed to persuade, change and influence, stuff you can get on a free app for your phone these days. What was so special about Crazy Adolf?”

“We could see he was special from the beginning,” explained The Evil One. “People who got slammed in chat rooms a few years back for saying that if they had been transported back in time they would kill baby Hitler were right, he wasn’t innocent at all. By his first birthday he had already conspired to murder two of his political opponents, the Putzldinger twins next door. It was the inbreeding and the food, being weaned from mother milk with sauerkraut will do that do you. I took on the case personally, seeing that after his abusive father ‘died’ he was sent to his grandmother’s farm. There, disguised as a goat, I scarred him both mentally and physically with the bite that sunk a thousand ships.”

“Eeuuuwww,” commented Hillary. “You mean you not only touched his goodie bag with your mouth, you bit off half and ate it?”

“I didn’t say anything about eating,” said Satan, looking cross. “But yes, it was necessary so that someone couldn’t recover it and sew it back on. Besides, I was younger and ‘curious,’ if you know what I mean, willing to do things I later realized might compromise my manly image.”

“Don’t tell me that Hitler recognized you when you later recruited him into the New World Order, kept it a secret but vowed revenge, and once he had consolidated power in the Third Reich took vindictive vengeance?” I asked. “Because, if you do I won’t believe it, it’s too simple, too pat, too ‘Uptown’ if you know what I mean.”

“That’s exactly what happened,” blurted out Satan. “All those days and nights he was lying to me, his lips whispering the exact opposite of what he felt. Just because I had caused him debilitating pain and years of teasing and torment in gym class he thought it was OK to play with my heart and break it. Well, it wasn’t, and you see what happened to him.”

I nodded, even though I knew Hitler had lived to a ripe old age in Antarctica, much of the ripeness due to the spotty bathing facilities (frozen pipes). The Big Guy glossed over this by saying it was “complicated,” but I suspect there was a LOT more to their relationship than he was telling. As they use to say, what happens in Nuremburg stays in Nuremburg.

“So, to sum everything up,” I summarized, “poor planning by your underlings and bad luck messed up a genius plan, but you learned your lesson and aren’t doing it again with Putin even though it seems to be the same on the surface.”

“That’s about the size of it,” agreed the Prince of Darkness, grateful I hadn’t dwelt on the somewhat-suspicious nature of their relationship. Let’s just say that while he purports to be “normal,” if that term is to have any meaning at all it can’t be applied to him, and he has been known to take advantage of that fact. I try not to judge.

“OK,” I said, relieved, “then you must have some means of control, a way to force him to cleave to your will. Say the word, and let’s fix this problem.”

“Um,” stammered Satan, “we already have. Earlier today we locked down the firewall, initiated failsafe, and feigned fecklessness. None of it worked. I’m afraid it’s one of those ‘Broken Arrow’ scenarios where your archery instructor gets his pay docked for negligence!”

To Be Continued…

[Deep Knight]

A Fistful of Bitcoins
An Old School Deep Knight Adventure
Chapter 10 – Drilling in the Wrong Cemetery



I was comforted by Satan’s incompetence. That was the Big Guy we knew and loved.

“What was it you were holding over his head like a ball and chain?” I inquired. “The fact he’s a mass murderer or his self-enrichment while his people suffered?”

“It was the murders on foreign soil that he ordered,” complained He Who Must Not Be Named. “The Novichok incidents in the UK have brought those in the open, and nobody seems to mind much except the Brits, and you know how much attention the world pays to them, which the exception of the Royal Family’s weddings, of course.”

“OK, that only means we have to dig deeper,” I said, no pun intended. “I assume from your little confession about Hitler and the 20th century dictator boys that you also programmed Putin when he was young. What was it, watching his mother roll up her nylon stockings and hitch them up to her girdle?”

“Just because that happened to you, Deep, doesn’t mean it’s all that common.”

“You’re thinking of ol’ Portnoy, or at least that was his complaint. Or was it having to eat liver? But that doesn’t answer my question, and I’m not talking about why women don’t wear girdles anymore. Give.” I was serious, and tried to adopt a tone and manner that expressed that, no matter how out of character it was.

“He was taken by his mother on Holiday to Odessa, where they when to the famous steps where the crowd was massacred in the movie “Battleship Potemkin.” Due to a tragic mistake, a squad of militia reenacted the scene with AK-47s, apparently killing mom. They thought it was an anti-government gathering, but it really was the line for a department store that had gotten in a shipment of shoes. Or not, as it really was all staged for his benefit with crisis actors. And, of course, to enact draconian gun control measures. His mother wasn’t killed, and she used her fake death as an opportunity to leave Siberia, a potent motivator. She wasn’t really even his mother, that’s how deep the rabbit hole went.”

“I thought it was because he was violated by Stalin, who had his way with him in the Kremlin,” offered Hillary as an aside. “Uncle Joe was hornier than Bill.”

“Those dates don’t seem to match up,” I commented, getting out my phone to check Wikipedia while simultaneously rolling my eyes.

“He was young, very young. I understand it was horrible and scarred him for life. I had to comfort him on stormy nights.”

“It must have been VERY young,” I said with emphasis, “he was born 5 months before Stalin died.”

“And that makes it alright!?!?” said Hillary with great emotion, like someone overplaying a role in a high school play. I could see that in her heart she still loved him, despite being ready to lead the charge to kill him. Women.

“I think that what it means,” summarized Satan, “is that Deep Knight is going to Moscow.”

“Holy crap,” I complained, “you know how he feels about me, and how I feel about that sort of thing. Not that there’s anything wrong with that disgusting and unnatural lifestyle, as long as it’s not in the apartment next door in a building with thin walls. And on the other side of the coin, he might blame me for whatever’s going on. And then there’s Trump, his new KGBFF, and what he wants to do to my family’s jewels. It sounds like a really bad idea, fraught with risk.”

“That’s exactly why we’re going to do it,” beamed Satan. “Take the Slice Girls with you.”

I not only took the Slice Girls, I added some paper files from deep within our records department (no pun intended). It had taken some of my “special skills” to motivate the aging records clerk, but invigorated by what must have been the high point of her pitiful life, she found the ones I was looking for before I had to leave. I know that I’m married and have vows and such, but sometimes you gotta bend the rules for work, especially when your boss thinks of murder as a management tool. Velna would understand, that is, if I was foolish enough to tell her.

In these hard-won files were the details on Vladimir’s surrogate mother. She had posed as a factory worker and his father as a conscript in the Soviet Navy, serving in the submarine fleet in the early 1930s (it was thought to give him a manly background, given the phallic nature of these ships). In reality they were Russian actors, put out of work by Soviet policies of drama and humor (against both unless they furthered the aims of Stalin, er, the State). The New World Order scarfed up a lot of disaffected communists after Stalin, once again feeling secure in having an atom bomb, told Satan to “go copulate himself” and once again went independent in 1949. The riff wasn’t repaired for 40 years (and that fool Reagan thinks it was his policies than ended the cold war – Satan gets a giggle out of that).

Who were his real parents? Some say his father was Dobby the house elf from Harry Potter (I should know, I’m one of them), others that he was the love child of Nikita Khrushchev and Phyllis Diller. But he was really cloned from the DNA of Julius Caesar! That’s right, when Marshal Zhukov and Marshal Dillon marched into Rome, the later dug up the old Roman Emperor and shipped him off to the genetics institute in Moscow! He was bred to be a dictator, a commie plot that fed right into our conspiracy! How lucky can you get?

Well, at least lucky enough that Putin’s surrogate mother (his real one being best described as a test tube) was still alive! She was using her maiden name, Maria Ivanovna Shelomova (she was one of the Smolensk Shelomovas), and living in an inexpensive section of Moscow favored by retirees, Facebook trolls, and people hiding from the authorities. I sent the Slice Girls in first, they have a way with really old women that doesn’t get me in potential trouble with the wife, and they could fight their way out if it was a trap with no danger to me.

But it wasn’t a trap. It was worse.

To Be Continued…

[Deep Knight]

A Fistful of Bitcoins
An Old School Deep Knight Adventure
Chapter 11 – I Know Why the Beige Curd Stings



If old people are friendly and cheerful, it’s a façade. They only do it to manipulate people, especially grandchildren who they use to torment their common enemies, their children. In reality they’re angry 24/7 because they’re pissed off at the “aging” thing. This is especially true if you’re an undercover agent sworn to secrecy, who’s pushing 80 when you can finally blab about your role in raising the head of your country’s KGB. Everyone would naturally think you were getting senile and having delusions, which is no less insulting for being logical (we Illuminati get such reactions all the time when people hear about our crazy-on-the-surface conspiracies). That would REALLY piss the right kind of personality off and make them extra-crabby, and Ms. Shelomova was that kind.

“He never writes, he never calls,” she complained, oblivious to the argument that he thought she was dead. “I’m sick and tired of working my fingers to the bone for that ungrateful brat, I don’t care if he’s the President of Russia. What kind of title is that? Stalin would never have agreed to such a pitiful title. There was a real man, I don’t care what they said he did to children in pizza restaurants!”

It wasn’t so much that we needed a sane patsy for the role I had envisioned for Putin’s surrogate mother, I just needed someone who could be relied on to remember a few lines and some stage direction. Or at least agree to cooperate and remember this for more than 15 seconds. My plan was simple, shock his brain into a “reset” using the sudden reappearance of his “mother,” then reboot that dysfunctional organ with Illuminati-grade software. Maybe too simple, because it hadn’t taken into account the cantankerous personality of the key participant. My nerves were shot a half hour into our “negotiations,” and the Slice Girls were ready to make sushi out of her (as if - they say aged meat is more tender, but I don’t think any of us thought that about this lady), when Homicidal Slice suggested we get someone more her age to talk to the aged harpy, like Satan’s mom. At first I thought this was a terrible idea, we would have two ill-mannered matrons to mind, but when they suggested that Kong come along to control his sweetie in turn, I begrudgingly agreed. After doing the “White Knight Funding Drive” with him, I found I felt more secure when Kong had my back. There’s something to be said for “overkill.”

“You people need to leave now,” insisted our aging target, “my favorite soap opera, ‘As the Old Political Order Turns,’ is coming on the TV in 10 minutes.”

We tactfully left and waited for her to fall asleep while watching Russian daytime TV. It took about 5 minutes. We then carefully transported her to a gurney bed be set up in her living room, surrounded her with an operating tent, and had the girls dress up in some skimpy nurses’ uniforms they had brought along, just in case they ran into some foxy former-Soviets. With gauze facemasks and a bright overhead light, she woke up with the impression she was in a hospital having an emergency procedure. This was a common occurrence in her and her social set’s lives, and she didn’t become unduly alarmed, even though she complained incessantly about the quality of the food and high prices.

Kong and Satan’s mom got to Moscow amazingly fast for having relied on the Illuminati Travel Office. The first thing I did after Satan raised their budget when we got our recent infusion of money, was put the people who had gotten awards for “cost savings” initiatives up against the wall and allowed frequent travelers to shoot them. Great for our international division’s moral, and it sent a message to the remaining Travel Office staff. Then there were the posters, such as “Get our people where they want to go before they need to be there, or die!!!” And they say I don’t understand how to motivate employees in a modern business environment.

As Homicidal Slice had anticipated, the two ladies hit it off almost immediately. For about 5 minutes. Then talk turned away from complaining about their sons to politics, and “America First” met “The West Can Kiss My Ass” and the room exploded. I mean literally, I had to duck to avoid getting beaned by an IV bag. Unlike most “catfights,” this one was more interesting for its martial arts (I gave it an 85) than erotic content (I gave it a zero). It also didn’t last long enough to get into hair pulling or clothes tearing (my personal favorites), as Kong reacted to his sweetie’s screams by getting into Ms. Shelomova’s face and adding his two cents to the conversation. If you can call an eardrum-shattering roar “two cents.” There’s also his breath, which isn’t as bad as it could be considering his diet and poor oral hygiene, but still funky enough to have more-than-likely been one of the many factors that caused her massive heart failure.

Shitskies. Here we had invested all this time and energy into the lady and how had she repaid us? By dying. Women! Also, we were in a bit of a pickle, because if Putin even heard the slightest rumor about us not only not telling him the woman he thought was his mom was alive but then causing her death in a plot to manipulate him, he might get upset. He can be most unreasonable that way. Luckily, people were used to strange goings on in this neighborhood, and our using the wood chipper on her corpse didn’t even raise an eyebrow.

But still, we weren’t any closer to our goal than we had been when I started this chapter. And it was getting late, later than I thought, which was sooner than you think. If, indeed, anyone who had gotten this far into this adventure could be accused of “thinking.” What to do, what to do?

We could clone her, of course, but even with advances in technology it would still take weeks to “age” her sufficiently, and that was too long. Shockingly enough, it was Satan’s mom who came up with the idea we used. In the 60’s Satan had formed the Mission Impossible Force, the IMF (the first director was a bit dyslexic). Their specialty was blackmailing world leaders by making them believe or say things based on a total fabrication of reality. Today we call such people “communications directors” and examples of their work are too numerous to mention, so I won’t. Satan’s mom had become familiar with them before their commercial flight to Moscow, they had used holographic projections (like at the World Trade Center) to make the gate attendants think Kong as small enough to fit inside the plane. After that, the flight was uneventful. Why not, she wondered out loud, use the same technology to shock Putin with his mom’s sudden return from the dead?

Why indeed? Using this solution to our and Ms. Shelomova small setback would not only suck up to the Big Guy’s mom and thus him (who, despite the hell she had made his life, still loved his mom), it would take care of a problem I had been worried about when looking for the ancient agent. Namely, that she didn’t look or sound anything like she did in the 1950’s. Plastic surgery layered with age and wrinkles, and a voice changed from decades of smoking Russian cigarettes (her brand was “Tunguska 100s, with a mysterious blast of flavor!”). An artificial version would take care of this problem, we could make her look and sound any way we wanted. Even better, what she said and how she said it would be under our complete direction too. Sweet.

To Be Continued…

[Deep Knight]

A Fistful of Bitcoins
An Old School Deep Knight Adventure
Chapter 12 – Hot Buttered Hopscotch



As agents Rollin “Rollo” Hand and Cinnamon “Cinnabuns” Carter readied the holographic projector and a fuse burned from left to right on the bottom of the screen, I charted our route to the inner sanctum of the Kremlin. You might think that this facility would have the world’s tightest security, like the Bolshoi Ballet’s ladies room, but in reality every dictator who traveled down this pike put in their own “secret” escape tunnel, making it as porous as a two-dollar hooker on taco night. I was planning on using one whose location I had pried out of Boris Yeltsin after the fall of the Soviet Union when we traded shots of vodka between shots of lead, or was that vice versa? My plan was to get in quickly, set up the projector, then have Cinnabuns wear one of those body stockings that has sensors on a grid that records your every motion (sexy!), changing her appearance and voice using CGI for the projection. Then, as a ghost/spirit with a gold-leaf halo like are on all those Russian icons (my addition to the plan to give the apparition the right “feel,” clever, huh?) she would not only shock him, but get him well on the road to reprogramming through pointed suggestion. Such as “into the ash pile of history with Trump” and “workers of the world want you to hook up with crooked Hillary”(they sound better in Russian). If it had gone as planned, it might even have worked.

First of all, the tunnel was littered with broken glass and a smell fouler than a bus station urinal. It seems that Boris used it as a place to “get away” and have a drink, and you know how Russians are about breaking bottles and glasses by throwing them against the wall. One of the reasons I never invite Cossacks to our place for cocktails. Then, our equipment, designed for home rather than field use, became temperamental with the vertical hold a persistent problem. Our projected image would “roll” up or down, getting distorted at the top and bottom as it did. Not only did it reveal that the image wasn’t real, when it started rolling too fast the computer replaced it with a test pattern screen with a big Indian Chief’s head in the center. I emphasized to the team that this would be hard to explain if it happened during our “performance,” and if they wanted to keep their reproductive organs, they would fix it.

Boris cruised into the office at 2:00 in the afternoon, bare chested with a buxom blonde on each arm and aides busily pressing him with questions on policy and governance. Ever the strong leader, Vladimir adopted an “off with their heads” attitude and swiftly cleared his desk with zero-tolerance for due process or justice. Then he got down to getting down with the girls, running around to pieces of furniture and announcing what dignitaries and heads of state had sat, reclined, or napped their while the girls irrigated it with their bladders. Putin was giddy with excitement, and occasionally asked, “Who’s your daddy?” to the girls in Russian, who responded with, “Presidentski Trumpo!”

What had happened to the man who had twice saved me from fates worse than death, namely getting killed? That Vladimir wanted his lovers to have only one daddy, him! And the peeing thing, especially on leather upholstery, a recipe for shrinkage and stinking (or is that “stinkage and shrinking?”). The man I knew would never do that to custom, matching pieces, which would be hard to replace given sanctions! Something was rotten due east of the state of Denmark!

It seemed to take hours for Putin to finish with the girls, and not just because we were below him and liquids flow downhill. If it had been only one of them, I would have suspected a urinary tract infection, but with two it had to be a conspiracy! I was trying to wrap my brain about how this could make a gnat’s ass of difference, when the entire Kremlin security force was on top of us!

It was the Slice Girls fault, they were so intent on remaining focused like I had told them that they let Satan’s mom slip away. Looking for some place a little drier to partake in a quick dose of Adrenochrome, she had obviously tripped some sensor while going through the intricate series of unusual steps necessary to abuse this unique drug. Trust me, you don’t what to know what they were. She snuck back before we noticed she was gone, with Moscow’s equivalent of a SWAT team hot on our heels like an overfilled bowl of borsch. And the stains would be just as hard to get out of the tablecloth!

Luckily, the broken glass hindered our adversaries as much as they had us, and thinking that the smell was a gas leak, decided not to use their guns due to the danger of an explosion. They had really nasty-looking knives, but the Slice Girls has swords so it was hardly a contest. Kong took care of the overflow, and the only bout that took any time to settle was one between Satan’s mom and one of the few female commandoes. Kong kept us from interfering, either because he wanted his sweetie to experience the thrill of the kill (and subsequent amorous consequences), or simply liked to watch a “cat fight.” This one was allowed to progress to the hair pulling and clothes tearing phase before Satan’s mother finally ended it with a flying drop kick that severed her opponent’s head. It also revealed, through her torn pantsuit (Hillary had started a trend in Hell), that she DID wear underwear! The “commando” rumor had been popular around work for months, but I for one refused to listen. It wasn’t because of any misplaced loyalty, but because any visualizations along those lines really creeped me out. As it was I’ve been having disturbing enough dreams from this incident, mostly due to fact her panties had “THIS TUSHIE AIN’T A-GONNA SPANK ITSELF” written on the back. Poor Kong.

Kong was as excited as I’ve ever seen him, but all it gained him was a slap. He hasn’t quite learned Satan’s mom’s “rule,” that men should always have an irresistible desire for her, but resist it when she wasn’t in the mood. And at that moment in time, her mood involved protecting her son from Trump. Ruthlessly inspired to be ruthless by the new notch in her bedpost, she barked out a series of commands and in record time Cinnabuns was being holographically projected into Vladimir’s office.

At first he seemed not to recognize her, the idiot-like expression he had on his face during the golden showering being unchanged. Then I realized that he probably WAS stunned, which would explain his inexplicable behavior! I urged our team to “schmaltz” it up, using dramatic techniques developed by our Hollywood division. Nothing. Vladimir wasn’t exactly numb, but he wasn’t reacting in any way we had anticipated either. Given my high Illuminati rank it couldn’t be that we made a mistake, so what was it?

At that very moment, science conspired to put an end to this philosophical inquiry by first having Putin’s lady friends answer a biological function’s call, and then letting gravity take hold. This saturated the brick’s mortar with a surprisingly-corrosive fluid (it’s their diet, all that cabbage and vodka), softening it enough to allow the effects of too much tunneling on the ancient brick structure to suddenly manifest itself. In other words, the floor collapsed under Putin’s feet, which would have been less disturbing if it hadn’t also been above our heads. You gotta admit that no matter what details get revealed in the next chapter, that had to hurt!

To Be Continued…

[Deep Knight]

A Fistful of Bitcoins
An Old School Deep Knight Adventure
Chapter 13 – Say It Don’t Spay It


Luckily Kong took the brunt of the vaulted brick ceiling’s fall, which while I’m sure was painful, didn’t result in anything but superficial injuries. He shook it off, being used to multiple contusions with extensive bruising from Skull Island and living with Satan’s mom. His bulk shielded the rest of us, the bricks sliding down his back, with only a couple support beams and Vladimir left perched on his nose.

Needless to say, this was a shock to both of them. Kong, because falling bricks naturally do that to you, but also because Putin had been literally caught by the explosion with his pants down. Vladimir, in turn, was as concerned about the precarious perched position of his package as Kong was, not to mention the proximity of the giant ape’s sharp teeth and fierce-yet-inquiring eyes. With an angry swipe, Kong cleaned his face of this affront to his sensibilities and deposited him on the rubble-littered, corpse-strewn floor.

The bad news was that we needed to grab Vlad and get out of there FAST, the collapse of the floor being loud enough to wake the dead and be noticed by the guards. The good news was that somewhere along the line one of the many shocking events each one doubtless the worst of his life, shocked Vlad’s system, and caused the brain reset that I had sought all along with our stupid plan! He not only knew who I was, he was glad to see me! Amazing considering the pain and suffering we had put him through, although it couldn’t be worse than what Hillary did with a buggy whip on a hot Saturday night.

Still, he remained somewhat delusional. By “somewhat,” I of course mean 100%. “Trump is to being our friend!” he insisted, oblivious to the facts. “He is tweeting me mushy stuff when you and Hillary are to being silent.”

I knew reality was being played with, and a fact-based existence wasn’t something to be diddled. I had seen Hillary send him various flavors of texts and cute pictures of kittens every few minutes over the last few days. Trump had obviously had the military block them, which explains what happened to that Russian satellite. I grabbed Vladimir and shook him. “None of that is real!” I explained as if to a child. “Trump has been gaslighting you!”

“Is harmless,” he shot back, “we turn off lights and gets big laugh. Donnie is to calling it “fart flaming.”

Donnie? It was worse than I thought. “No, not that, which is not only rude but dangerous (1), I’m talking about the psychological technique named after the movie the same name. In its simplest form a person or entity, in order to gain more power, makes a victim question their reality. This is done through blatant lies, denial of things you know they said, threatening things important to you, wearing you down over time with lie upon lie, and finally convincing you that everyone else is lying, but not them. Come on Vlad, you should be familiar with this after how you got them to let you hold the World Cup.”

The sad fact is that you never imagine the nasty stuff you do to others being done to you, especially without a condom. This was doubly true in Vladimir’s case, and he wept openly about both, but mostly about the “raw dogging” part. I pressed my point. “Can’t you see that he’s taken a page from my playbook and is playing both sides against the middle himself? I knew I should have applied for patent protection, or at least a trademark. But that’s spilled milk under the bridge, just look at this recent Tweet. ‘I’m very concerned that Russia will be fighting very hard to have an impact on the upcoming Election. Based on the fact that no President has been tougher on Russia than me, they will be pushing very hard for the Democrats. They definitely don’t want Trump!’”

I could see tears welling up in Vladimir’s eyes, and gave him a moment to himself as to not embarrass him. Like the time I came up on him when he was with the panda the Chinese had sent the Moscow Zoo. But Putin was from Siberia, where the weak don’t survive with a full count of fingers and toes, and he found inner strength in hate. This reminded me of Hillary, and I insisted that he give her a quick call. But, just to make sure he remembered the things he had done while in his “altered state,” I quickly reviewed the events of the last week. Putin’s face got redder and redder as he was reminded of the public statements he had made about his rejected lover. Some of these were statements he just couldn’t take back, like the one questioning the suitability of his you-know-what for her you-know-what-else, even with proper preparation.

“Is simple, I am to telling her about Trumpo and brainwash and she is to understanding, yes?” he insisted, blind to the risk.

“For one thing, women think with their hearts as well as their minds, so forget anything that sounds reasonable to a man,” I explained. “Besides, saying you can be brainwashed makes you look weak, and might give her ideas. Never admit to your mistake, instead blame the lying media or the transcript.”

They say that if you’re going to lie, you might as well make it a big one, and Vladimir told a whopper. The old, “those texts were missing words due to technical difficulties” excuse. For example, he told her that his text, “I don’t know why I would want to see you again,” was sent as, “I don’t know why I wouldn’t want to see you again.” In this same fashion, by creating double and sometimes triple negatives, and sometime introductory phrases such as “I would have to be crazy to say …” he found excuses for each and every transgression. Sure, most were pretty transparent, if not downright silly, but Hillary was known for thinking with her you-know-what instead of either her heart or head, and it had been a couple of weeks since its ashes had been hauled. Or, for that matter, she had experienced an orgasm.

So, Trump was learning, eh? And not only due to his cavalcade of mistakes, which is good because he had made so many it would give him an edge. No, by playing the Illuminati and Putin off against each other he was copying my recent strategy. This was an idea I had stolen on my own with nobody’s help but my staff and the R&D Department, and it frosted my coconut. But you have to keep a steely focus on the prize and not get distracted by anger, lust, or a full bladder if you want to come out on top. And, as literally millions of Supermodels know, Deep Knight likes to be on top.

“It’s time for some payback!” I announced. “Am I the only one who wants to finish our excursion with mindless violence and copious amounts of blood and gore? Who wants to march on Mar-a-Lago?” Satan’s mother’s hand shot up like a rocket, with Kong and Vlad not far behind. And I didn’t even need to look at the Slice Girls to know that now they had a little carnage to warm them up, they were ready for the main event!

To Be Continued…

Footnotes:

(1) Ouch!

[Deep Knight]

A Fistful of Bitcoins
An Old School Deep Knight Adventure
Chapter 14 – Hungry Like the Elf



I was ready to take my team of commandos on the action adventure of a lifetime, but Satan insisted we join him in Washington for a special “Blood Moon” Black Mass first. It seems that there was to be a lunar eclipse, the longest one this century, during July’s full moon, and some in the media started calling it the “Blood Moon” because the lunar disk can look dark red during such events. There was one problem, the eclipse would be completely out of view from both American continents, but the lure of the name had so enthralled the Big Guy that he went in whole hog. So, I, Kong, his mother, and the girls were all on our way from somewhere we COULD see the so-called “blood moon” to somewhere where we couldn’t see it, all in order to celebrate it with an orgy of unbelievably-expensive depravity. And Satan wonders why evil costs so much to sustain, yet still polls so poorly among fiscally-conservative independents.

I would have whined and complained to the Big Guy, but I had heard from the grapevine that things hadn’t gone well while we were gone. One would think that with her mother-in-law away Gladys would be ecstatic and Satan would have been returning to a happy home after each hard day at evil. But whoever “one” is obviously doesn’t know the Princess of Darkness, who became enraged by the fact that her husband was trying to be nice to her. It’s a complicated relationship, a bond born in Hell and sustained by hate and envy, but it works for them so who am I to judge?

At least the unholy rites were entertaining, with several acts that headlined in Vegas imported for the half-time show. I liked the “Jersey Boys” part a lot, nothin’ like the oldies, although the falsetto voice seemed to annoy Kong, who ate the entire singing group during their “Big Girls Don’t Cry” finale. Yet he’ll get mad if you say the slightest thing about that garbage he likes to listen to. I hate to sound like my parents, but it’s not even music, just a bunch of screaming savages being accompanied by earth-moving machinery! No, seriously, it is. It’s a whole new death metal genre.

But after the blood drained and the smoke cleared (Satan’s mom and Kong really hit the bong once the ceremony was over, I guess the Russian weed that Vlad gave them wasn’t all that good and they were “jonesing”), it was time to go to Florida. Putin had tagged along in order to, “to be going to her instead of to making her going to me,” as part of his penance for allowing himself to be brainwashed into breaking up with her. He was anxious for some unofficial payback (it had become personal, not political) and was joining us, as was the “her” in the previous sentence, Crooked Hillary. I breathed a sigh of relief, our team might be small, but between Kong and “Hill” we had the homicide part covered lock, block and sterile. I figured I would be the brains of the operation, Satan’s mom the loose cannon, the Slice Girls would fill in wherever additional carnage was necessary, and Vladimir would rip off his shirt and wrestle any bears we came across. You never knew what you might find when you went “up river.”

By river I of course meant the Rio Lago. Born high in the Florida Alps, it dropped into the coastal plain to become a sluggish meandering stream in an otherwise impenetrable jungle. Obsessed with security, Trump had chosen the location of his hidden sanctuary and popular golf club Mar-a-Lago wisely, the river being the only entrance and exit. My mission was to proceed up the Rio Lago in a Navy patrol boat, pick up President Trump’s path at Nu Mung Ba, follow it and learn what you could along the way. When I found the President, I was to infiltrate his team by whatever means available and “terminate his command.” When I pressed for clarification, Satan responded angrily.

“He's out there operating without any decent restraint, totally beyond the pale of any acceptable human conduct. Not that there’s anything wrong with that when I’m setting the rules, mind you.”

Well, I make my own rules, and this one was to “terminate with extreme prejudice.” That’s right, infest people’s houses with termites based on their race, color and creed. I understood that this mission did not exist, nor will it ever exist, and that my secretary would disavow any knowledge of my actions. No need to antagonize the wife unnecessarily about meaningless office romances. I was going to the worst place in the world, weeks away and hundreds of miles up a river that snaked through the war like a main circuit cable plugged straight into Trump’s socket. There's a conflict in every human heart, between the rational and irrational, between good and evil. And good does not always triumph. Sometimes, the dark side overcomes what Lincoln called the better a-holes of our nature. One can only hope, keep one’s fingers crossed, and keep the bow pointed upstream.

And by “bow” I meant the boat’s bow, not the thing used to shoot arrows or tied from ribbon. The horror… the horror… and I’m only talking about the boat’s crew. The machinist, the one they called Chef, was from New Orleans. He was wrapped too tight for Illuminati; probably wrapped too tight for New Orleans. Lance, on the forward .50s, was a famous surfer from the beaches south of LA. One look at him and you wouldn't believe he ever fired a weapon in his whole life. Clean... Mister Clean... was from some South Bronx shithole and the light and space of gloomy jungle really put the zap on his head. Then there was Phillips, the Chief. It might have been my mission, but it sure as shit was the Chief's boat! I made a mental note to have Kong eat them once the mission was over.

Kong was in good form, being back in the jungle was like going back home. However, as Thomas Wolfe wrote, “you can’t go home again,” so forget that first part. Exotic beasts from Orlando theme parks had escaped into this part of the wild, especially South American camelids, you know llamas, vicuñas, and the like. Kong considered certain parts of these creatures delicacies, and was hunting and snacking along the shore as we worked our way upstream. At first he went for guanacos ears, but his tastes had shifted and Kong was into alpaca lips now.

Finally the wait, and our being constantly swiftboated by our enemies, was over. We were nearing our destination as we crept through the early-morning fog. Hillary joined me on the deck and sniffed the dankness. “Smell that? You smell that?” she asked, as if expecting an answer.

“What?” answered Mister Clean, his bald head and white outfit gleaming in the dawn’s early light.

“Napalm, son. Nothing else in the world smells like that.” Hillary knelt. “I love the smell of napalm in the morning. You know, one time we had a Bernie Saunders state headquarters bombed, for 12 hours. When it was all over, I walked up. We didn't find one of 'em, not one stinkin' socialist body. The smell, you know that gasoline smell, the whole hill. Smelled like … victory.”

Vladimir smiled and hugged her close. Life seems more precious when you’re about to kill massive numbers of people, exposing yourself to danger as part of the bargain. I know this sounds unfair, we Illuminati usually like to murder people with no danger to ourselves through underhanded and dishonorable tactics, but no one said that life is fair. Or more importantly, committed to it in writing as part of an employment agreement.

It was quiet as well pulled around the last bend in the river. What awaited us on the grubby docks was anyone’s guess. I knew it would be difficult and involve homicide, but that left a lot of latitude and questions unanswered. I tightened my jock strap, lit my hair on fire, and waited for the signal to go over the top.

To Be Continued…

[Deep Knight]

A Fistful of Bitcoins
An Old School Deep Knight Adventure
Chapter 15 – Apocalypse Now V: Apocalypse!



As the day lightened, the fog only seemed to get thicker and darker. Suddenly and without warning, a mournful voice started singing over a droning theater organ and electric guitar.

“This is the end, beautiful friend.
This is the end, my only friend, the end.”

Damn it, first Trump uses the Rolling Stones’ “Let’s Spend the Night Together” at his rallies, now he’s playing “The Doors” at his golf clubs. Both of them were “ours,” having been part of the Tavistock conspiracy that spawned teenagers and The Beatles. Had the man no shame? No sense of propriety? No respect for our brand?

Then, as if on cue, the fog began to clear and we could see the bamboo structure that served as a gate to Trump’s jungle stronghold. On bamboo spikes sticking out of the top, interspersed with flaming Tiki torches, were mounted heads. Human heads that is, a bit bloody from being suddenly separated from their associated bodies, but still recognizable. I saw several members of the government, and even more reporters from The Very Unpatriotic Washington Post and Failing New York Times. It was true what all the adventure novelists said, heads on spikes did give the place a truly savage appearance. I made a note for when we remodeled the Rothschild Castle.

Then, out of the gate came a one-man reception committee who looked strangely like Dennis Hopper. He smiled, said “Welcome to Mar-a-Lago!” but must have seen our horrified expression and continued, “The heads. You're looking at the heads. Sometimes he goes too far. But... he's the first one to admit it.”

Satan’s mom blurted out, “He's gone crazy!” Like a lady who had a Adrenochrome monkey on her back and a 25-foot tall ape for a boyfriend was one to talk, although neither hypocrisy nor shame had ever stopped any member of her family from doing anything.

The property’s employee shook his head. “Wrong! Wrong! If you were here... if you could have heard the man speak just two days ago... God! You dare to call him crazy?”

Just like a Trump supporter to refer to his pep rallies, supposedly part of his 2020 reelection campaign but really a positive reinforcement for the President. Like some aliens, he seemed to feed on emotions, and this hunger drove him to seek the adulation of his slop-trough-like crowds. His getting fanatics to show up at his “concerts” in droves was another trick he stole from us, one we first perfected with the Grateful Dead and their fanatical army of “Deadheads.” Made a fortune in tie-dye t-shirts.

“Flocking A!” replied the crazy old bag, her heavy accent getting in the way of proper diction, although her meaning was abundantly clear. What in the world was she thinking? To prevent any further compromise of our position, I jumped in.

“I just want to talk to him,” I lied, fingering the assassin’s pistol I had hidden in my pants.

The Trump representative froze with a distressed look on his face, obviously thinking was painful, and said, “Well... uh... man, he's not here. He's gone away. He's gone away to a rally with his people. He feels comfortable with his people! He forgets himself with his people! He forgets himself!”

Anyone who had heard him go off script at one of his rallies knew full well how he forgot himself when he was on a roll and the crowd was cheering. I had a feeling he was telling the truth and not stalling for time, so I called his bluff and added, “I'll wait for him.”

Some loyal employees will make excuses for their boss, for example mine if they know what’s good for them, and this man was no exception. Walking us through the squalor that was the clubhouse, he let us know how he felt, “He can be terrible. He can be mean. And he can be right. He's a great man. I wish I had words, man. I wish I had words... I can tell ya something like the other day he wanted to kill me. Somethin' like that...”

“Why'd he wanna kill you?” I asked, hoping against hope he had succeeded and this was the guy flaming brightly before he burnt out.

“Because I taped our phone call. He said, ‘If you tape me again, I'm gonna kill you.’ And he meant it! So you just lay back. Lay cool. He becomes friendly again, he really does. But you don't judge the President. You don't judge the President like an ordinary man.”

So this was Michael Cohen’s replacement, the President’s new “fixer,” lawyer and bag man. His existence had been only a rumor, what you didn’t know you couldn’t turn to give state’s evidence, but this was confirmation. Or was it? In the jungle that is Mar-a-Lago and the Trump Administration, it was a mistake to believe your own eyes, much less nose.

I booked suites at the resort (ouch!), and waited for the President’s return, hoping I wouldn’t be recognized. For this reason, I left Kong back in the Jungle, a place he likes better than being indoors anyway. Some might have wanted him closer, but I knew that he was jealous enough of Satan’s mom that he would keep a close eye on her, so I knew he was within our beck and call should a trap blow up in our faces.

As I suspected, the fixer had lied, Trump had been there all along. He knew who I was, after all I was his nemesis, and what I wanted, namely his hide on a platter. I expected him to be angry, but when he had his thugs strong-arm me into his office, he look tired. Tired and beaten!

“The horror… the horror…” he started tentatively, not realizing that iconic phrase should have been saved for the end, ”I've seen horrors… horrors that you've seen. But you have no right to call me a murderer. You have a right to kill me. You have a right to do that... but you have no right to judge me. It's impossible for words to describe what is necessary to those who do not know what horror means. Horror... Horror has a face... and you must make a friend of horror. Horror and moral terror are your friends. If they are not, then they are enemies to be feared. They are truly enemies! Like the lying press with their fake news!”

The man had gone off the deep end, and end I know well, and was starting to imagine things. “I remember when I was campaigning for President, and found out that Hillary was killing children in pizza restaurants. And I remember... I... I... I cried, I wept like some grandmother. I wanted to tear my teeth out; I didn't know what I wanted to do! And I want to remember it. I never want to forget it... I never want to forget. And then I realized... like I was shot... like I was shot with a diamond... a diamond bullet right through my forehead. And I thought, my God... the genius of that! The genius! The will to do that! Perfect, genuine, complete, crystalline, pure. And then I realized they were stronger than we, because they had the strength... the strength... to do that. If I had ten divisions of those men, our troubles here would be over very quickly. You have to have men who are moral... and at the same time who are able to utilize their primordial instincts to kill without feeling... without passion... without judgment... without judgment! Because it's judgment that defeats us.”

You had to admire his admiration for us and our ethics-free minions. If you believed it, which I didn’t. This was WAY too introspective for Trump, and not at all like him. I became more certain it was bogus as he continued with a confession, “As for the charges against me, I am unconcerned. I am beyond their timid lying morality, and I am, like, so beyond caring.”

I had the opportunity to kill him then and there, but should I do it? Everybody wanted me to do it, the DNC, the lying media, feminists, liberal cucks, but him most of all. I felt like he was up there, waiting for me to take the pain away. He just wanted to go out like a soldier, standing up, not like some poor, wasted, rag-assed renegade. Even the jungle wanted him dead, and that's who he really took his orders from anyway. The jungle that was the tangled mess of Russians oligarchs for whom he had laundered money, not the one with the trees and snakes and such.

On the river, I thought that the minute I looked at him, I'd know what to do, but it didn't happen. I was in there with him for minutes, not under guard; I was free, but he knew I wasn't going anywhere. He knew more about what I was going to do than I did. If the Democratic Caucus could see what I saw, would they still want me to kill him? More than ever, probably. And what would his people back home want if they ever learned just how far from them he'd really gone? He broke from them, and then he broke from himself. I'd never seen a man so broken up and ripped apart, and it was about to get worse because I was holding a huge machete, and was just fed up enough to use it.

The horror… the horror…

To Be Continued…

[Deep Knight]

A Fistful of Bitcoins
An Old School Deep Knight Adventure
Chapter 16 – Touch Me There Again and I’ll Really Give You Something to Cry About



The crazed President, sunk into pretty deep depths of madness, muttered, “The horror… the horror…” in a dazed state, almost as if he was either drugged, a method actor, or both. He looked up at me with pleading, bloodshot eyes, and muttered, “You come into my house on the day my daughter is to be married, and you ask me if I coulda been a contender. Now we got here in the state of Louisiana what's known as the Napoleonic code…” It was if he was staring behind me, someplace far away, perhaps his golf club in New Jersey. I raised the oversized machete over my head using my left hand (I’m right handed but like to decapitate with my left, it’s a Satanic ritual thing), when Satan’s mother screamed out, “No, don’t! He’s more valuable alive!”

Now, normally I wouldn’t listen to the old biddy, but at that same instant I heard Kong crashing through the jungle towards us, so I decided to show her the respect of an answer before ignoring her pleas. His inane ramblings were getting on my nerves, and when he yelled “Hey Stella!” it hurt my ears. Then I saw the look in Satan’s mother’s eyes, less compassionate and more hungry, and it dawned on me.

I had suspected that the old witch could harbor a certain fondness for the Orange Menace due to certain encounters with shape shifting Reptilians posing as him (long story, all you need to know is it wasn’t my fault). I had been worrying that Kong might be miffed if this came out, and so had been dancing around it, but now saw the truth. It was because chewing-his-words Trump appeared stunned and stupid, as if he was drugged. Drugged by something dangerous and extremely powerful. Of course, you-know-who wanted to get some for herself, and for that she needed The Donald alive.

While contemplating whether I should use my new knowledge for leverage or simple revenge, I realized that both were fraught with the same difficulty, Kong. No sense taking chances with the big ape, especially when life and death were on the line. So, using an unusual tactic for me, I decided to set her straight with the truth. Or rather, by a series of revelations, starting with removing Trumps hair. This gave him a strange look, almost like a bald Marlon Brando, and revealed what I had of course suspected but not yet written about! I let them and my readers know how clever I was immediately, but not before Kong arrived.

“He’s a phony! And I don’t mean that the way anyone else would, which is also 100% correct, but that he’s a clone! Look here, a bar code!”

I switched on my keychain’s black light, and sure enough (whew!) there it was, the universal mark of Klones-R-Us, the Walmart of human genetic replication. In the same place we put the “666” tattoo. Darn, I was good.

“The bad news is that not killing him will get us nowhere. The even worse news is that this is obviously a trap. I have the sudden feeling this golf club has been filled with tons upon tons of TNT and is about to be blown sky high. This isn’t paranoia or a wild guess on my part, I just realized that’s a bundle of sticks in the clone’s pants and there’s a clicking clock stuck up his butt. He’s not acting crazy because he’s on drugs, his altered state was caused by his knowledge of his part as detonator for the impending explosion, and no doubt the discomfort caused by the concealed timer. I suggest we get back to the boat with all possible haste.”

The panic was immediate, although many of the underpaid resort housekeeping and food service staff delayed exiting to kill the Trump clone, not realizing that he wasn’t the real thing. I suppose this was my fault, I had put the hairpiece back onto his head before leaving. I realize that the delay I caused them caused their demise, but in my defense I can truthfully say it only took a second and didn’t mine. In the end we were on the river and just beyond the immediate effects of the blast when it came. Although it caused a huge wave on the river, the boat was able to “surf” it out and use this extra push to speed our exit. Unfortunately, none of the staff followed, having unwisely taken the advice of their supervisor Charlie, and Charlie don’t surf. The bad news is that they all drowned, but the good news is we didn’t.

On the boat I let everyone know my thoughts on our narrow escape. “Trump is playing us off against each other,” I explained, “Copying me once again.”

“Us against whom?” asked Hillary in that snooty way she has of using proper grammar.

“Against ourselves!” I explained, annoyed. “You against me, him against her, and this rock against that hard place over there. If I know my Trump, right now with us either dead or distracted he’s back in Washington DC making overtures to Satan about burying the hatchet. Let’s give him a call and find out.”

“We’re too far away from a cell phone tower to get a signal,” said Hillary, looking down at her phone, “I thought I felt a little less NWO mind control here.”

“I have carrier pigeons,” offered Satan’s mom innocently. Isn’t it cute how old people can’t let go of antiquated technology? I ignored her and continued.

“Then we need to get somewhere we can make a call. I remember a gas station not far downriver, where that kid was playing that dueling banjos song. We can call and warn him from there.”

Suddenly it was a race, a race against the snakes, against the alligators, against the pigeons, against the herds of lip-less alpacas, but most important of all, against time.

To Be Continued…

[Deep Knight]

A Fistful of Bitcoins
An Old School Deep Knight Adventure
Chapter 17 – The Plaster Caster’s Busman’s Holiday



It was dark when we got back to the backwoods-riverside gas station where we had launched our doomed expedition what was only yesterday, but seemed like hours ago. Sure enough, the toothless kid with the banjo was still there, playing some sort of stupid “dueling deliverance” song. Several scary been-too-long-in-the-hills types with bad southern accents and even worse oral hygiene wanted to offer us an opportunity to “squeal like a pig” while being sodomized, but all of us except Satan’s mom declined, and after one look they rejected her without discussion. I suspect Putin might of answered differently if Hillary hadn’t been along, but that’s pure conjecture on my part based on a wistful look that could have been from anything (but wasn’t). So, we gave them the boat’s crew, with the understanding they would kill them when they were finished. All except Chef, who didn’t leave Mar-a-Lago with us, having been killed and decapitated by the Trump clone, who had suspected he was an assassin because he made good sauces. I told you, crazy as a loon. Then the clone, in war paint, had thrown his severed head into my lap as I sat helplessly with my hands tied behind my back. You might think I left out this little detail from embarrassment, but it was actually to avoid repetition. You include too many scenes that are the “same old thing” and not only end up with poor prose; the police start to get wise to your MO.

I blocked Satan’s mom from getting to the phone first, and made the call myself. Depending on how he was feeling, the big guy might be “out of the office” for his mom, but I’m pretty sure he would be in for me. Unfortunately his secretary said he was “on an important phone call,” which could mean only one thing. Actually, it could have meant a lot of things come to think of it, from some “robo call” to Satan ravishing some bimbo on top of his hellish desk, but I knew with our luck it had to be President “Art of the Deal.” And that Satan was probably putty in his hands.

“Disconnect that call!” I screamed at the Big Guy’s secretary, who knew by my manly voice it was a command from Lord Rothschild, Grandmaster of the Council of The Twelve. Which is why her snotty reply surprised me. Not having any time to waste, I handed the phone (one of those quaint antique ones with a cord) to Satan’s mom, who got her son’s office manager not only to terminate the call, but put her through to her “little boy,” IMMEDIATELY. Asking Kong to make sure she didn’t end the phone call for another hour or so (slim chance of that, given all the things she had to complain about), Hillary, Putin, the Slice Girls, and I slipped away and took an SR-71 to Washington, getting there in under 20 minutes. Yet another advantage of traveling with Kong’s girlfriend.

The Illuminati Marine 1 helicopter rushed us to headquarters where Satan was still on the phone with his mom. Luckily she hadn’t noticed that I had taken her ride to Washington, and so didn’t have to face her ire about that now. Kong, being much more easy-going, was of course cool with spending more time in the Florida hills, he was a backwoods boy himself, those “woods” being the jungle on Skull Island. I understand he loves to watch reruns of “The Beverly Hillbillies,” as he can relate to Jed and especially Jethro as a naïve, trusting innocent trying to cope with modern life in the big city. It’s kind of sad when you think of it, so big and brash on the outside and yet a vulnerable stranger in an even stranger land on the inside. Then again, he also likes “Hogan’s Heroes,” “Gilligan’s Island,” and “I Dream of Jeanie.” It all worked out OK, I understand they spent a romantic night watching the crew being despicably abused in stomach-turning ways, and then roasting weenies over an open fire until dawn. Crazy kids.

Satan was less pleased. “I was about to make a deal,” he explained, one so good it would be foolish not to jump at it. I wanted to slap him silly while reminding him that Trump couldn’t be trusted, he had broken him word so many time he was giving the Prince of Darkness a run for his money. Then there was the fact I had conned him into talking to him mom for over an hour, an unforgivable sin in most instances. Luckily, I had Hillary and Putin to back me up, and the truth be told, if there’s anyone the Big Guy is afraid of outside of his mother and wife, it’s Crooked Hillary Clinton.

“Mar-a-Lago was a trap, rigged with explosives set to go off and kill us all,” fumed the former First Lady. “Not to mention my meal in their restaurant gave Vladimir and me the worst case of the runs we’ve ever had. It must have been those huge slices of chocolate cake for desert. There’s no way that anyone can disrespect me, er, us, er, you that way and get away with it! We have the meat, we have the motion, and it’s time to get down and get it up! First, there’s going to be a march in Washington tonight on the first anniversary of Charlottesville’s “unite the right” march. You know, the one with the Tiki torches and chants of ‘Jews will not replace us.’ I suggest we take the march over ourselves, and replace the alt.right with crisis actors of our own, preferably Jews!”

This was a bold statement, knowing how Satan felt about people of that religious persuasion (You-Know-Who of Nazareth was Jewish, and those of you who read the bible know how the Big Guy crapped out every time he mixed it up with him). But the Source of All Evil also had a sick sense of humor, much like Hillary’s (you should see some of the silly things she does to children before killing them for their adrenochrome), and went for the idea. Sweet. Unfortunately, we couldn’t find enough Jews for the replacement (for some odd reason most didn’t want to dress up like Nazis), so we filled in with costumed clowns. The result was a crazy as you might expect, kind of like Seinfeld-meets-Nuremburg-rally-meets-the-circus-coming-to-town, and various new organizations with widely-varying expectations all reported on it differently. I understand that Trump’s reaction was best described as “apoplexy.” My only regret was that we hadn’t found a way to add Stormy Daniels and sharks.

You would think this would make Satan happy, but it didn’t. This wasn’t just because his “deal making” with the Orange Eminence had been terminated. To tell the truth, Satan has been upset ever since he saw one of those Hotel ads where they use the Mafia’s slang for shooting someone, “badda bing, badda boom,” as their new advertising slogan. No doubt they discovered that some people want to sleep in the same place underworld assassins do, much like they want to eat at the diners where all the semi-trucks are parked. Some very-stupid people; I once ate at a popular truck stop where everything was deep fried, including the salad, but that’s another story. All excited, he had gone to the head of the Five Families for his “cut,” when he found they weren’t getting any income from this, having not copyrighted or trademarked the phrase. I would comment about the intelligence level of members of Italian organized crime, but in actuality have nothing but respect for their work on our behalf, and they should tell their representative on the Council (his name is “Guido” or something) that I’m his friend and only want what’s good for us all. That he can trust me implicitly. Either that or knock him off and put someone friendlier in his place.

But all that was forgotten like yesterday’s news cycle when President Trump struck back, once again through QAnon, who as you know is now really a cyber-robot-troll programmed from Sorcha Faal’s abnormal consciousness. And it was against a target we hadn’t expected, Hillary Clinton! As reported in the lying press, the bronzed-faced boob still rants and raves against her at his rallies, once leading the crowd in a “lock her up” chant for a full 18 minutes (55 seconds longer than In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida), but this is misdirection. You might notice that he hasn’t indicted or charged her with any crime, which should be easy given the sheer number of homicides she’s committed (I mean, she’s good, but nobody’s perfect and there must be evidence somewhere). It’s the ol’ “hit ‘em where they ain’t” strategy, which the idiot was cleverly turning against itself to turn Hill against Vlad. Luckily, he didn’t factor in their reliance on each other for their orgasms, or that I would see through his plan and inform them before the launch codes could be entered.

But back to the revelation, that Hillary was using abducted children’s blood to color cement. How they discovered this was actually straightforward. “Operation Backyard Brawl,” a plan to skulk around the SW deserts looking for asses to kick, found a homeless camp on an abandoned property owned by cement manufacturer Cemex. An underground cave made to look like a cistern that contained a large water container that was only big enough for a child to enter. Which of course meant that that was what it was used for, and being water-tight must have contained blood from those children, duh! This now-exposed "child sex camp" was of course linked to the Clinton Foundation through CEMEX, the owner of the property, and in 2014, CEMEX pledged support to Project Concern International to provide lower-cost housing loans in Guatemala, Mexico and Zambia. And, even more shocking, CEMEX has also supported the Global Alliance for Clean Cookstoves, which was launched in 2010 by Hillary Clinton while she served as secretary of state! Could any set of dots be easier to connect?

The story was clear to those who have eyes to see and genitalia to match. Hillary was using child-tank-blood to mix red-tinted cement! A 1911 British patent proved this (actually, Ms. Clinton didn’t know anything about this patent, she just liked the color). I told her this was a lot of work for something that could be done simply with mix of commercial pigments made for use with concrete, but you know the former Secretary of State. Knowing what you want and remaining firm is an admirable quality in a man, but it makes a woman look petty and weak. Hey, I don’t make the rules (actually, as the head of The Council of The Twelve I DO, but that’s another story). Besides, she literally had thousands of gallons of the stuff left over from adrenochrome extraction and wanted to compound the evil of that crime with recycling or reuse of resources. Going the extra mile like that is only one reason Crooked Hillary is an inspiration to us all here at the New World Order.

But, she hadn’t counted on the fact that all CSI had to do was chip off a chunk of that cement, and Hillary’s secluded house’s driveway would become a mile-long crime scene! It would take more than ruthlessness to save 2017’s “Assassin of the Year” now, it would take luck!

To Be Continued…

[Deep Knight]

A Fistful of Bitcoins
An Old School Deep Knight Adventure
Chapter 18 – Assume the Position, Missionary!



Hillary had been seduced by the sienna color of the flagstones in Sienna’s medieval “children’s execution square,” caused by centuries of exposure to blood before the availability of modern stain-fighting detergents or Scotch-guarding treatments. Unfortunately, her driveway’s cement was mixed using pre-pubescent human blood to get that authentic sienna tint, and was thus a giant piece of forensic evidence. One single chip of the pavement would be enough to put her in jail for many times her lifetime.

Luckily, most industrial chemists have ended up in Hell (think punishment for inventing nerve gas, Viagra, artificial sweeteners, the flavor used in gin, and such), and came up with an idea. The red color of blood is caused by hemoglobin, which exists in two states – with enough oxygen (red) and without enough oxygen (blue). This explains why all those people you’ve been strangling turn color as they croak, and why aristocrats are called “blue bloods.” Anyway, many of the substances we use for chemtrails are designed to suck the oxygen right out of patriotic American homes, and we spray that stuff 24/7, so I simply diverted a fleet of our flyboys over her estate to give the blood drive a good dousing. So, even though couldn’t possibly beat Trump’s people to the Clinton estate, much less jackhammer up the driveway’s pavement in under a few days, the situation was diffused when they found a driveway the color of blue slate instead of sienna. If any Trump loyalists had been skilled in exterior design we would have been in trouble, slate didn’t match the rest of the landscaping at all. But clueless and working for Trump go hand in hand, just look at the exteriors at his golf clubs, so we skated. A near thing, and this is from someone who’s learned to keep his thing near.

If I sound bitter, I am. It’s the stupidity of making cement driveways using blood, and once again due to that “big number” thing. You know, where people are unable to comprehend how big some numbers really are, which leads to ludicrous and expensive situations like this one. As you know, it takes well over 400 gallons of water or blood to mix up a cubic yard of aggregate suitable for heavy-duty driveways (for this job, an average of 423 to be exact), and it takes about a cubic yard for each linear yard of 18-foot wide pavement. For the Clinton estate’s 800 yard-long driveways, it required 1.2 million liters of blood, and that doesn’t include the curbs or sidewalks. And it had to be a pretty plump kid who provided more than a liter of blood, it’s only 7% of body weight at most and it’s hard to get more than half of it out, even with modern Illuminati-funded exsanguination technology. The bottom line here is that over 1.2 million missing children are pretty hard to cover up, even given the number naturally “lost in the shuffle” at shopping malls and the border, and that requires money. Almost a million dollars an abduction (average, it actually varies widely), which comes to about a trillion dollars OUT OF OUR BUDGET for Hillary’s boutique-colored drive. Not that I’m advocating we “lock her up,” but I’m just saying that we shouldn’t reject ideas that would result in such a significant cost savings out of hand.

Crooked Hillary didn’t care what her folly did to our budget, of course, but was furious over being almost found out. It was one thing to have her sworn enemy lead crowds in chants advocating her incarceration, but another entirely to actually try and investigate her many crimes against humanity. In the midst of a rant she revealed that she had been counting on blood being thicker than water to stay out of jail. I thought she was talking about her stupid cement, but it turned out she was referring to the fact that she and Donald Trump were 19th cousins. This puts a strain on the meaning of “distant” in “distant cousin,” but this blood happened to be royal, and her entre into the Illuminati bloodlines!

It turns out that both she and the current president are the 18th great-grandchildren of Sir John of Gaunt, 1st Duke of Lancaster and son of Edward III of England. He married his many children off well and founded many of Europe’s royal houses. I was impressed, until I realized that the same group that had done this “analysis” also said that Hillary’s husband Bill and every other US President, as well as Elvis, were also descendants. I found this to be unlikely, to say the least. It turns out they used a method the Illuminati genealogists have used from time to time, of “filling in” gaps in the historical records with whatever you wanted. For example, many times people simply disappear from the historical record, and if women can be said to have married a Washington, Lincoln, Roosevelt, or Truman. In this case a great-great granddaughter was supposed to have married a guy who beat his hogs with a cane to make their meat tender and thus gained the name “Rodham.” This same great-great granddaughter was strangely enough also supposed to have married six others to make 5 presidents and Elvis’ family trees work out, but you know how fleeting marriage was in those days of plagues and easy divorce.

“Blood isn’t thicker than water,” I observed, “until you add the cement, sand, and gravel. Trump has no loyalty to anyone but himself, which I would normally consider a virtue, but only if he was on our side. It’s time to stop playing Mister Goodbar and Doctor Feelgood and instead go for Rebeca of Donnybrook Farm. In other words, take off the gloves and let the chips fall where they may.”

We took down Manafort and Cohen that Tuesday, leaving their bodies to twist in the wind as mute warning to the leader of the free world that the balloon was about to go up. He might have the nuclear football, but we knew where his other balls were located, and weren’t afraid to send trained knees to cause him levels of pain unimaginable to testicle-challenged women. I was just about to pull the lever and damn the torpedoes when Satan called a halt on our war with Trump due to a reason so shocking it made my fruit loops stand up on end!

To Be Continued…

Qanon believers have recently been spreading some really special ideas, like one where a child sex ring run by Hillary Clinton (whom they believe chops off kids' faces on video) sells baby blood to a cement company which then mixes it into their product.

[Deep Knight]

A Fistful of Bitcoins
An Old School Deep Knight Adventure
Chapter 19 – The Fate of the Furriers!



To say I was angry would be an understatement. Forget the countless lives, fortunes, and billed overtime spent on toppling the present government; putting a stop to the civil war hurt my ego and besmirched my id. I rushed to have it out with Satan, who was unfortunately “having it out” at an off-site oversized costumed orgy. Our recent infusion of money had caused the Big Guy to throw fiscal caution to the wind and hire people for increasingly large “affairs,” this one done at the grounds of one of those summer Renaissance Fairs, with the entire facility and crew hired at exorbitant rates for the day. To this bevy of armored knights, damsels, lords, ladies, fools, jugglers and sword swallowers was added a slew of those “dragons” from Chinese New Year’s parades, “manned” by g-stringed, large-breasted strippers from clubs named things like “Silicone Sally’s.” There were also several dozen unbelievably-obese women “dressed” as owls (if you can call a mask and feathered shoes “dressed”) and a like number severely-anorexic women similarly dressed as storks. The later were doing a “swamp dance” amongst the revelers, deftly stepping over the rutting costumed medievalists as if they were clumps of rotting vegetation in the muck. I know what you’re thinking, “this sounds tame for the Prince of Darkness,” but just imagine the expense. If you were envisioning many hundreds of thousands of dollars, your inner vision is on the right track. All to get somewhere with a skinny slut in a stork suit that five bucks worth of Viagra would have delivered him a whole lot faster. Things were “wrapping up” as I arrived, which is to say that a certain thing had nothing to do with getting wrapped or more importantly “up,” and he was being gently nudged towards the door.

“It’s foolish to spend money to find inner fulfillment,” I told the Source of All Evil sagely, “or at least this much for just one afternoon. And you know what Gladys is going to do if she finds out, and she always does.”

“I know,” said Satan, smirking, “but that’s the way that I roll. It’s a hard job, but someone’s gotta do it.”

“That someone should be able to keep that job within budget and still make it hard,” I suggested, “but I’m not here to talk about your spending, just your diplomacy. I’ll put this as politely as I can, what the @#$! &!* perineum *@# Trump and the horse he rode in on $%@## %&*! with a *%$@ the size of a blimp.” Sometimes you have to be tough with Big Guy, which would be easier if he respected toughness, but that’s my job. Which is why there have been so many new Baron Rothschilds over the last few years.

“If I’ve learned one thing, it’s you’ve got to take time now and again and smell the roses,” observed Satan. Which was rich; it’s not that he hadn’t just been doing things that inadvertently involved a lot of smells, but they almost certainly weren’t of roses.

“We need to talk about the war with Trump,” I reminded him, “and this bullshit about having a cease-fire.”

“Look, it’s been a stalemate and black hole for money for, what, 20 or 30 years now, and it’s time we end it,” he said, “It’s time to shit or get out of the voting booth.”

“It’s only been 19 months,” I reminded him, “and we would have won long ago if you hadn’t kissed 'n made up with him all those times. With him then stabbing you in the back within a matter of hours each time, I might add.”

“So why change horses in the middle of the stream?” he asked rhetorically. “But, let’s wrap this up. I got a dinner theater booked for this evening, where we’re going to have a cannibal orgy with the cast of ‘The Reluctant Debutant,’ and some maniacal meat-cutters. Wanna come along?”

I bit my tongue and shook my head. It’s not that Satan wasn’t typically illogical and intransigent, but usually not when it came to doing something that would hurt Donald Trump. A long history there. Something was amiss, and I needed to find out what. And what was more likely than his family, and with Gladys still steaming from her mother and law and Kong moving nearby, I figured it was Satan’s mom. After all, she had expressed an unhealthy interest in Trump (is there any other kind?) during a previous chapter, and I’ve discovered that if an author includes such drivel in their mystery novels, it’s usually a foreshadowing. And if you’ve ever had your foreskin shadowed, you know how disturbing that can be. But it’s still not as disturbing as the potential ramifications of even one misstep when dealing with an overly-protective Kong’s girlfriend. Not to mention that I needed to watch my step around a boss known for his vindictiveness. I decided to try subtlety.

“It’s you mom, isn’t it?” I asked tactfully, “She put this crazy idea in your head because she wants sex, drug, or money. Am I right?”

“What makes you think I can’t control my own family?” said Satan, obviously irked. You can usually tell from the steam coming out his ears at times when he’s not, ahem, experiencing heightened desires. This is usually a good time to duck and cover (in both cases), but I wasn’t being paid the big bucks to shirk my responsibility. Besides, I wanted to know.

“Thousands of years of history?” I asked pointedly, not expecting an answer. “Look, I’m on your side here, and want to help you,” I lied. “You’ve got to trust me and tell me what’s really going on, the fate of the world might depend on it. If we make one wrong move now, peace and prosperity might break out, leading to the horror of America becoming great again! But together, with trust and a free hand when it comes to assassination, we can work our way through this and find the path to final victory! We’ll simply have Kong take her on a long vacation somewhere she would like, and by the time she gets back she’ll have forgotten all about whatever burr is under her saddle.”

The Big Guy, always sensitive when it came to personal matters, collapsed in tears. “You have no idea about what I have to put up with. No matter what I do, it’s never good enough. It’s always, ‘Beelzebub did this abomination,’ or ‘Azazel put an apartment above his garage when his mom asked.’ I tell you, it’s been like hell the last few months in Hell.”

“But why?” I asked, hungry for an answer. I had seen too many friends die and have to be cloned to let my search for that basic question drop like a you-know-what in an ostrich pen you-know-when.

“I was afraid to ask,” he admitted, sheepishly. “But, after all these years, does it really matter? Do we really have to know ‘why?’ Shouldn’t we let sleeping dogs lie, and not question their veracity?”

“Naw,” I concluded, forcefully, “me and the readers need to know. I’m sorry if it’s personally embarrassing to you.” I didn’t add that that last item was the real reason why it was so interesting, and why I needed to know. It would make a great story for the next board of directors meeting.

To Be Continued…

[LaVidaRoja]

Deep Knight, where are you? MIA since August?? That's too long for a mere vacation!

[Burnaby49]

Deep Knight, where are you? MIA since August?? That's too long for a mere vacation!

Actually he's been MIA since September 9th. That's the last time he was signed on and he posted this;

http://www.quatloos.com/Q-Forum/viewtop ... 05#p268705

As you can see from that posting and the "to be continued" ending to his last posting in this discussion he apparently had no plans to quit Quatloos.

[Siegfried Shrink]

Maybe those supermodels finally drained his vital fluids beyond recovery and his dried out husk is grinning at the sky in some infernal desert. Resquiescat in pace.

[NYGman]

More likely the Illuminati were involved, given his Deep knowledge

[Pottapaug1938]

If I had a choice between receiving the attentions of hordes of supermodels, and posting on Quatloos....

Come to think of it, I do... I have to keep myself occupied, somehow, in between posts.