An All-New Deep Knight Adventure

[Deep Knight]

The Return of Lady P
An All New Deep Knight Adventure
Chapter 5 – Five Go-old Rings

We ended the night with a few drinks, and then a few more. You know how thrilling the thrill of victory can be, especially when you’ve won. And awaking the next morning with a plan and knowing that case of gin died for a good cause made the pounding hangover easier to bear. After a little hair of the dog (BTW, never add gin to coffee), we went into action, scattering “evidence” across globe as fast as we could manufacture it. A pair of chopsticks here, a black silk stocking there, Chairman Mao’s little red book in a boudoir, and a dragon-eating-pizza tattoo “down there” John Podesta will never be able to explain, were only a few. I cleverly added things that were easily disproven just to give it the look and feel of real fake news. After tipping off Stryker at “Resistance, the Last First Line of Defense,” we cleared out of the office bunker and waited for the fire to catch, the weenie to get roasted, and the smoke to clear.

The attack by the Canadian Commandos then night before had revealed our vulnerability. Let’s face it, due to my many unbelievable achievements; I was one of the best-known secret agents in the business. Had I stuck to speed-mating with beautiful women, like my mother wanted, I wouldn’t be one of the usual suspects every time a bank was robbed or a government overthrown. As it was, or is, my name came up as body counts rose, flattering at first, but annoying when the crosshairs were on your butt. We had to get to someplace safe, where we could wait out the storm while stirring the pot. And that place would have to be the Gobi Desert in China. Not only was it close enough to the Black Dragon guys to plant evidence, it was in the middle of a big, flat, wasteland where an approaching enemy could be seen for miles. And, I knew of a spot with water, shelter, fast food, and that took American Express cards.

Xanadu, fabled pleasure palace of Kublai Kahn, and failed movie musical with Olivia Newton John, was the last place anyone would look because no one knew where it was. Years of neglected marketing, print-media-only advertising, interior design stuck in the 80’s, and a stubborn insistence on Mongolian disco music, had left it a vacation backwater. The perfect place for us to hide, no one with even an ounce of style and good taste would be caught dead there. Unfortunately, that didn’t include the Mongol Hoards, who unexpectedly rode out of the desert now and again to pillage and loot; another reason the hotels were always under-booked and reservations unnecessary.

The Pindars, Spade and Archer, always up for new earthling experiences, were thrilled. Once ruthless Reptilians from the Draconian Home Planet, years on Earth had mellowed them considerably and now their interests ran more towards wine, women and song. We had made an effort to introduce them to all the right people and take them to all the right places, and it had paid off with a level of trust and dead brain cells previously unmatched in my adventures. Those lizards can really put it away, partly because it’s ammonia that makes them drunk, alcohol just gives them a mild buzz and makes their pee smell funny. Anyway, they were anxious to go to a real Mongolian BBQ place, one with the grill in the center of the table, so we took an Uber to the one recommended by the hotel concierge. Little did we know what lying in wait, awaiting us.

First of all, there were the Gobi Desert oysters, which they should tell you what they are on the menu. Velna turned green and had to go to the ladies room. Then there was the trick table, where the grill disappeared and an old Chinese guy comes up in its place. But I’m getting ahead of myself, so forget that last bit. We had finished a fabulous meal, and Spade and Archer were amusing themselves by throwing beef rib bone segments at each other when I stopped them with a raised hand. Something wasn’t quite right here, and not just the strange meat that tasted like chicken. As the hair on the back of my neck started to rise, I pushed my chair back and in secret sign language, instructed our group to vacate the restaurant immediately. Hopefully they would think I was simply trying to stiff them for the check, not realizing that I was on to them and trying to pull my butt out of their trap.

“Please don’t leave, Agent Knight,” suggested the ancient Chinese guy who had arisen in place of the grill (now you can remember the bit from above), “We have unfinished business!”

To be continued…

[Deep Knight]

The Return of Lady P
An All New Deep Knight Adventure
Chapter 6 – Baboons on the Road

Our Mongolian-style BBQ grill had turned into an old Chinese dude with the traditional long beard (think ZZ Top) and bushy white eyebrows of a Dragon Society elder. The black dragons on his ornate silk Cheongsam added the information on the society’s color, and a deadly undercurrent to the story. The “unfinished business” was either the killing of his predecessor in deadly man-to-man combat at the Orowille Dam spillway, or our present scheme to blame him for hacking Hillary. I didn’t know which, but neither would exactly endear me to the old grumpy Chinese guy gently stroking his beard and drinking tea in front of me. In fact, it looked like the end of the line, the end of Rico, the top of Old Smokey.

I decided to let him make the first move, and snapped my fingers, the universal silent sign for “bring me a cup of tea, too.” I slowly drank my tea as I watched him drink his. I was wearing pants, he was wearing a dress. My pinkie was extended, his was not. In this same manner, it became a battle of wits, east vs. west, Atlantic vs. Pacific, Oolong vs. Lipton’s. The minutes ticked away into hours. Finally, tiring of this game of cat-and-mouse, moose and squirrel, I made the first move.

“Is this about what I think it is?” I asked, inquisitively. He started to open his mouth to reply, but I cut him sort with another loaded question, “And, is the bathroom through there? All this tea, you know.”

“I see that what they say about you is true,” my adversary in silk answered in perfect Oxford-accented English, “Yes, this is exactly what you think it is, depending of course on what you’re thinking. And I’ve come ready to take care of that business if I’m right. Am I?”

“Once I take care of that other business,” I bluffed, “I didn’t come here for my health. Especially given the smell coming from the kitchen. Or is that the bathroom and it’s in the back instead?”

“I can see why they call you the ‘one eye of the snake,’” observed the effete elder, “but even with the infinite patience of the east, this is starting to annoy me.”

“Me too,” I countered, “So let’s get down to brass tacks. You first.”

“But, you are my guest. We have a tradition in my country of always letting the guest go first. Please, after you.”

“We have a tradition too, one of letting the guests decide who goes first.”

The Black Dragon Elder was visibly annoyed. “You are slipperier than an eel, round eye. If you are trying to lower our prices, I assure you it won’t work. Now, If you are ready to talk about our supplying chemical feedstocks I will bring up my presentation and continue, if not, I will finish my tea and leave.”

“By all means,” I said, trying not to show how startled I was.

“By all means which one?”

“Chemical feedstocks,” I replied, “what else?”

“Do not try to pull the wool over my eyes. I know you also work for the New World Order, our avowed enemies who have successfully thwarted more than one of our plans. But business is business, and we have learned that you need both credit and a steady supply of materials for making ammonia. And we know why. I think we can both come up with a better price than you’ve been getting, and be willing to defer payments until your payment checks from the Draconian home planet clear.”

Stuff for us to make ammonia with, so that’s was a chemical feedstock was! I hadn’t exactly focused on the technical end of the business. Still I knew enough to be flabbergasted, this is exactly what our ammonia company needed to remain solvent. If you think the Dragon Families or shape-shifting Reptilians are scary, you should deal with Wall-Street bankers who weren’t getting paid. Anything was preferable.

Our host pushed another button, and a large screen monitor came down, upon which he gave us a 20 minute Power Point presentation. I don’t actually have anything to do with the numbers side of the business either, I’m more of an idea guy, but Velna confirmed that the prices were good and the terms more than what we needed to stay afloat. Even though I was still concerned about the revenge thing, it paled in comparison to keeping the ammonia shipments on schedule and the lizard people back home happy.

After sending the contracts we had negotiated back to our lawyers for review, we retired to the hotel. It was only then I realized that we had perhaps spread our evidence against the Black Dragon Society too well, and have shot our ammonia business in the foot. We needed to find out what was going on back in the good ol’ USA right away, so I turned on CNN. Unfortunately, the basic cable in our room only had the news in Chinese, but I could tell from the pictures that something very big was happening. Much to my surprise, it appeared to concern the US Fleet and North Korea, not China!

To be continued…

[Deep Knight]

The Return of Lady P
An All New Deep Knight Adventure
Chapter 7 – Trials and Errors

The story of how our planted “fake news” evidence mistakenly brought the world to a crisis of a magnitude it hadn’t seen since the last one, is obscure. It took many long years to piece some of it together, and additional years to build the time machine send the information back to “now.” As I understand it, the present administration had never really gotten out of “war room” mode, and were intercepting their long-vanquished opponent’s e-mails and keeping her under surveillance more than 24/7. The horrible result of their living in this past was that absolutely none of our carefully-crafted blame-it-on-China clues made it to their intended audience. Instead, they were scooped up and “analyzed” by a group who took the “anal” part of the task to heart, but not the “yzed.” And a group for whom all Asian cultures were alike, and put sesame dressing, fried wontons and Mandarin orange slices in their salads. The references pointing to the Black Dragon Society were completely misunderstood, and attributed to a completely different source. The many minutes of online research we had spent crafting subtle clues were all for naught.

Since the powers that be were looking for evidenced against North Korea and Hillary, they did their job and found it. For example, Chinese and Korean writing is completely different; with a whole lot more lines and ticks but fewer circles in the Chinese ones. But to the idiots doing the analysis, anything that wasn’t Roman script looked about the same (I guess we’re lucky they didn’t think it was Russian). Not only that, for reasons that may never be understood their “analysis” was that there was “conspiratorialization” between Hillary & Obama’s “Deep State” organization, the MS-13 gang, Planned Parenthood, and the fat kid who runs North Korea. As a “show of strength” every ship in the Navy and some not in it were sent steaming towards the “Hermit Kingdom.” That is, once the original orders had been corrected after it was discovered they couldn’t sail to North Dakota.

The world was once more in crisis, which is normally cool with the Illuminati, but not this time. Not only was Satan pissed at Kim Jong-Un for being “a snot-nosed jerk” and having that bad haircut, he was also the wrong kind of “evil.” Hey, if you’re gonna keep an organization like the Illuminati exclusive, you gotta have rules. And he was getting a whole lot more ink than the Prince of Darkness, an unhealthy activity. So who got the call to “fix it as long as I was in the neighborhood” after checking in? Luckily He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named didn’t know we were the source of this sudden publicity, or the horrors we were soon to experience would have been even more horrible, as inconceivable as that might be.

After some yelling, crying, and begging on the phone, the darkest hour just before the dawn found me swimming under the surface of the chilly Yalu river, border between China and North Korea. I had on a “rebreather” scuba system, a wet suit, and a duck decoy on my head. The duck was a mixed blessing, it made swimming in a straight line a problem, and due to its floatation, was making my neck really sore. But we knew the river’s opposite shore was heavily guarded, and the plan was to find an uncovered spot posing as the duck, and slip silently onto land. Unfortunately, there were armed guards with automatic weapons every 10 feet or so, with spotlights shining onto the water. When I got within sight, the guards shot at the duck and rushed into the water to retrieve it. Food shortages, don’t cha know. There was no way I was crawling up on that shore this night.

Ditching the duck and letting it float up to the surface, where it was almost immediately caught and consumed even thought it was made from wood, I swam deeper. I knew from my briefing that many sewers dumped into the river just beyond the bank, and that this area of the border had very few party officials living nearby. This meant the sewers had very little human waste in them because the humans had very little food to process into poo. When you’re in my business, you find yourself in some unsavory places, and not just those you people with minds in the gutter think I’m talking about. Supermodels are actually known for their good hygiene. But back to the business at hand, let’s just say I’ve bathed in worse than the sewers of Sup’ung, and I’m not talking about that thing Satan’s been into lately, which quite frankly doesn’t turn me on in the least.

Coming up through a manhole cover in the pre-dawn darkness, I scuttled to the cover of a nearby hovel and deftly stripped off my wetsuit to reveal full white-tie evening dress. Putting a carnation I has carried in a special waterproof holder into my lapel, I lit a cigarette and walked down the drab and grimy street as if I owned it. Needless to say, I didn’t fit in, and was in custody within 30 seconds. “Take me to your supreme leader,” I suggested to the squadron of police who surrounded me, “The name is Knight, Deep Knight, and I’m pretty sure the fat little @#$!’s expecting me.”

To be continued…

[Deep Knight]

The Return of Lady P
An All New Deep Knight Adventure
Chapter 8 – Hard Passages and Coconuts

The North Korean Police weren’t exactly bowled-over by my boldness, but at least didn’t beat me too much before plopping me down in a seedy jail cell. Funny, in spy novels audacity always worked a lot better than this. Luckily, my request to see their “beloved leader” got through, later I found out the police who watch the police had filed a report. Soon I heard the sweet sound of officials yelling at each other in Korean, using phrases you didn’t have to understand to understand. After profuse but obviously insincere apologies, I was packaged off to the seat of government, the Pyongyang Poontang Palace of the Prince of the People, Kim Jong-Un.

I’m sure you’ve all heard stories about the playboy-Stalinist and his unique ways of solving family disputes. But I figured that underneath he was just a scared little boy, whose simple need for love causes him to harshly repress his people. Perhaps all he needed was understanding, and a few jolts from a cattle prod where it would do the most good. But I was short on cattle prods as I was led past the lounging Korean cuties scattered around the gilded marble hallways. It is said that 1000 women are the beloved leader’s concubines, an excessive amount for most men, where girls could go years before coming up in batting rotation. Nothing I couldn’t handle in a single long afternoon, especially with a well-placed conveyor belt or a good tailwind. But not with these girls if I had any say in the matter, not only did they have the appearance of molded plastic dolls, they all looked alike. And I don’t mean like how real Americans think Orientals look alike, I mean they really did. It was as if the fat @#$! only wanted to have one woman, but at the same time wanted 1000 of ‘em. No matter how you cut it, it’s sick, sort of like owning a restaurant but eating meatloaf for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Not to mention that the molded-doll-looking girls were inherently creepy to look at just by themselves.

After what seemed to be miles of corridors and molded meatloaf mamas I was led into an opulently sequined throne room. Like emperors of old (I assume, did they have Emperors in Korea?) I was not allowed to see the dipshit despot himself, who was seated behind curtains of golden fabric. He could see me, but I couldn’t see him. I also couldn’t speak with him, both due to protocol and having no languages in common. Unfortunately, the translator who cowered in the corner only had a rudimentary knowledge of English (speaking it is a crime there), and between this and a bad accent generated dialog in ways that were insulting to not only Koreans but all Asians. The swine.

“Welcome Illuminati man. You drink-ee tea? Maybe like-ee coffee-ee? You smoke-ee imported Cuban Montecristo cigar?”

“Thank your Supreme Leader, but tell him I would rather get to business so I can get back and cleaned up as soon as possible. I think my wetsuit leaked, or someone is eating kim chee nearby.”

After some mumbling in a foreign-sounding language, and a few strangely garbled false starts, the translator asked me what I and my master Satan, for whom he had nothing but contempt, wanted. At least I think that’s what he was trying to say. I laid out my proposition, “I’m part of the Illuminati, sure, but I’m here on behalf of the Galactic Draconian Empire. We just made a HUGE deal with the Black Dragon Society, and would like to bring you in on it. Unbelievable amounts of money are involved, and my partners and I could be generous with your share. I know we’ve had our differences in the past, but business is business. By the way, if you want in, then no nuclear war with the United States. Bad for business.”

Without waiting to consult with his master, the translator went into a political tirade, his sensibilities obviously shocked. “You capitalist hegemonist! You also stupid man! Mister stupid man! Shove up backside of all ancestors and eat dung! You have much metaphysical anxiety and foster general malaise that engender intellectual stagnation!”

With a sharp word from behind the curtain, the porcine dictator dismissed his strange translator-with-the-even-stranger-vocabulary. As the curtains started to move aside, I realized I was about to come face-to-face, cheek-to-jowl, petal-to-the-metal, with the bloated little twerp. I was prepared for anything, but not what I was soon to see in its naked state of exposure. An image that would be burning itself into my already-seared eyes almost immediately. Very, very, very soon. That’s right, any second now.

To be continued…

[Deep Knight]

The Return of Lady P
An All New Deep Knight Adventure
Chapter 9 – Dipping the Needle

After a short period of time that was way too long, I was finally face-to-face with Kim Jong-Un’s ugly face. He was dressed in an ill-fitting suit and alligator “lift” shoes to make himself look taller. Truly the visage of evil – but the wrong kind, of course. His evil wasn’t even in the same ballpark as our evil. I hoped he could speak a little English, because my Korean was limited to a few pickup lines that, save one, would be inappropriate for financial negotiations. Little did I know how little I had to worry.

“Exactly how much is an ‘unbelievable amount?’” asked the less-than-dapper dictator in slightly Northern-English-accented English, “I can believe in very large amounts, believe me.”

“The figure our accountants have come up with is twenty billion dollars, and if everything works out there’s every reason to anticipate robust growth.”

Kim smiled that annoying slavedriver’s smile he has on the podium during the military parades, and almost spat out his contempt in his words. “Twenty million dollars! You must take me for a fool! That’s not enough for a decent house on Rodeo Drive, much less to run an oppressive government with the right kind of flair!”

“Not ‘million,’ but ‘billion’ with a ‘B,’” I clarified. “A two with 10 zeros after it.”

Kim was more than a little startled, if his grabbing a nearby dancer’s pole to steady himself was any indication. He tried to speak, but couldn’t until he was finally able to swallow and lubricate his vocal chords. “That’s different. What exactly would I have to do to get that much money every year?”

“That’s not per year …” I started to say in correction, but the ill-mannered meathead cut me off.

“I knew there must be a catch! Just like our central economic planners, who give you what sounds like good news, but then you find out it’s over 10 years!”

“It’s not per annum, or even per ten annums,” I once again clarified, “that’s the hourly rate.”

“Four, four, forty hours …” he began badly, doubtless wanting to ask about the number of hours a week the payment would apply to.

“Nope, payment is continuous, 24/7. That comes out to a cool 8760 hours a year.”

The Dong-Un brat looked like he was about to faint, and gripped the stripper’s pole even more tightly. “But, but, but, but,” he stuttered with an accompanying clicking sound, “That, that, that …”

“A little over 175 trillion dollars a year. That's with a 'T.' And that would be tax free, also with a 'T.'”

You’ve got to hand it to the little turd, he remained standing, even though for a minute it was touch and go. Part of it was he forgot to breath. But, finally getting his body functions under control and the shit-eating grin off his face, he spoke. “Isn’t that more money than there is in the world.”

“It’s thinking like that that keeps poor people poor,” I explained in detail, “Anyway, what do you care as long as we pay you and you get to spend it? Of course,” I added, “some of that would be in food for your people instead of cash, say 1% or so.”

Kim’s dilated eyes flashed with anger and greed. “So now it’s only 173 trillion! What are you trying to pull?”

“Relax,” I assured him, “It’s part of the deal. I’m not 100% up on the details, but apparently your people need to eat more, especially protein, for this to work. Doesn’t make much sense to me, but the engineering and chemistry guys back at the plant are most insistent.”

Old joy-boy Jung-Un was besides himself in pleasure, singing old Beatles songs and dancing around the pole. On the surface I was concerned that he would got into a stripper’s routine and start taking things off, but underneath there was something else. A feeling I had heard his voice before, especially singing. With today’s hologram projection technologies, like those used to fake the 9/11 “attacks,” you never knew if you couldn’t take faces at face value, so this Korean twerp could be some other flavor of twerp. Before going any further, I just had to know.

Luckily for me and the brevity of this story, I happened to have the necessary technology to find out concealed up my sleeve. Flash powder, and a small ignition device, allowed me to generate a quick burst of fire for quick exits. Invaluable when armed bad guys or husbands showed up, but the fire and smoke generated also knocked out hologram projectors for long enough to reveal the wizard behind the curtain. Kim was wrapped up in wrapping himself around the pole and singing “Hey Jude,” when I let ‘er rip. But even I was not prepared for what I saw and who he really was …

To be continued…

[Deep Knight]

The Return of Lady P
An All New Deep Knight Adventure
Chapter 10 – Get Back, Loretta

There, standing in front of me as big as life but a bit smaller, was former Beatle Paul McCartney! The only man alive who challenged McDonalds for “billions sold,” and according to inside sources, the Walrus. Or should I say, in reality … Illuminati agent William (Billy) Shears Campbell! Yes, in truth Paul WAS dead, and Billy Shears had been impersonating him since he he plowed into a mystery-tour bus in late 1966. No wonder his voice sounded familiar, especially while singing.

For those of you who don’t know the story, it’s really quite simple. The Tavistock Institute Illuminati had been working for hundreds of years on controlling youth using popular music. For example, their initiating the “Waltz Craze” in the mid-nineteenth century caused the revolutions of 1848 & ’49 that almost brought down the monarchies of Europe. In the early 1960’s it was decided to go for mind control using “rock ‘n roll,” a form of music primitive enough it could be used to hypnotize the masses into acting against their own self-interest. Knowing that Americans are suckers for a good English accent (how else do you explain Downton Abbey?), they manufactured The Beatles, blackmailed Ed Sullivan into having them on his show, and the rest is history.

But they didn’t reckon on the “bad boy” of the group, Paul McCartney. Increasingly upset about playing music that was being used to enslave ordinary people, he started writing songs that expressed his anger, like “I Saw Her Standing There,” and “Can’t Buy Me Love.” Finally the Powers That Be used an agent named “Rita” to “blow his mind out in a car,” by hypnotizing him into not noticing the light had changed. Cloning was in its infancy, so he was replaced by “Billy Shears,” a minor Illuminati minion from Liverpool who people used to say kind of looked like Paul and was known for singing pretty well if he was drunk enough or in the shower. The “story” that he had won a secret “Paul look-alike” contest was nonsense, of course. How would you enter a secret contest in the first place? What some people will believe.

Paul needed to be replaced because the Tavistock Institute hadn’t finished with their evil plan yet (it culminated with the distribution of the brown acid at Woodstock), and needed the boys to keep putting out albums loaded with reverse-recorded subliminal suggestions. There had also been this study that showed tens of thousands of young girls, infatuated with Paul, would commit suicide upon hearing he had died. This would have completely upset our plans to increase unemployment in the UK, and of course could not be allowed. The 3 other Beatles went along, but, upset and in fear for their lives, slipped clues to “what really happened” to Paul into songs and onto album covers, just for fun.

Billy “Paul,” who had time to recover from his shock while listening to my narrative, picked it up and continued in the first person.

“Sure, they let me leave after Woodstock, but I was still angry. Here I was, impersonating one of the most famous musicians in the world, but forced to put out silly power-pop love songs. It didn’t matter how much I wanted to get into nihilistic punk, new wave, or death metal, the Illuminati had me by the short hairs and when they pulled, out came the worst sort of sappy stuff. And then there was the world peace thing, which of course was the worst. Peace and love; enough to make you puke. But it did get me on this tour of North Korea not long after I got the belt-mountable holographic projector for my stage act, and once I found out there was a problem with their new leader, made the switch. Now that I’m funded I can be as evil and punky as I want, play 3-chord rock in 4/4, and no one can stop me, not even the Illuminati! Although, you will do me the courtesy of keeping this to yourself, you know how angry Satan can get when he’s crossed.”

I was confused. “But, aren’t you one of the richest persons in the world from selling all those records and having your father-in-law invest the money? With them using those silly love songs for commercials and movies, you should be rolling in dough!”

Billy “Paul” winced. “Well, half of the income went to Paul’s real family, and the other half got awarded to what’s-her-name who I married to then divorced after Linda died. The portion that was left after taking out the two halves has gotten eaten up by this shit hole of a country. You wouldn’t believe what it’s like trying to keep 1000 women happy someplace with no shopping malls!”

I had the batty Beatle right where I wanted him, so I smiled and held out my hand. “Then, we’ve got a deal right? You give the boys back at our factory whatever it is they want from here, cut the nuclear bombs and ICBMs, we give you money, and I keep my mouth shut about who you are. Especially to He Who Must Not Be Named for whom I otherwise name names on a regular basis. OK?”

I thought he was going to shake my hand off, he jerked it up and down so hard. But still it was one more victory for Deep Knight, the man those in the know call “The Michelangelo of Spy Stuff & Hubert Humphry of Hasty Humping!” I declined a celebration feast with the mass-produced Korean cuties, and opted for a shower and the next flight out instead. But before I split, I needed to satisfy my curiosity about the identical concubines. And no, not in the way you’re thinking, either.

“They were Kim Jong-Un’s father’s project, and look just like the old fart’s second “trophy” wife when she was young,” explained the ex-Beatle-stand-in. “Even though they looked like his mother, the sick @#$! I replaced still slept with them because he was a sick @#$!. I keep them around to keep up appearances, and to tell you the truth it’s not so bad. For example, in bed they’re small and easily stacked.”

I was glad to be getting out of this topsey-turvey world of pop stars gone bad and guys named ‘Kim.’ But it turns out that’s not the dictator’s first name, but a family name shared by half the people of Korea. The other half are either named Lee or Park. Sure, you might meet Koreans that use other family names, but these are pseudonyms used to keep Occidentals from realizing Koreans have only three names and are thus susceptible to all sorts of internet and mail scams. You know, “Dear Mr. Kim, Mr. Park suggested I contact you about a large sum of money in our bank in Nigeria…” Anyway, I was glad, bla, bla, bla; but also realized that I was no closer to my original goal, saving Vladimir Putin from a vengeful Hillary “57 Varieties of Death” Clinton. With no end in sight, I had run out of ideas, and just wanted to go home. Maybe it was time to grab the bull by the horns, kick it in the balls, and confront the woman who made the term “first lady” into a verb denoting political assassination by overenthusiastic bloodbath.

To be continued…

[Deep Knight]

The Return of Lady P
An All New Deep Knight Adventure
Chapter 11 – Approaching the Eleventh Hour

Even though we had the Pindar’s UFO as transportation and didn’t have to rely on the Illuminati Travel Office, it took us a while to get back home. First there was the Black Dragon Society’s invitation to attend their Fried Wonton Festival, then a stop so the wife and Pindars could shop in ShangHai, and finally a few well-earned days on the beach at Waikki. Before leaving North Korea, I had Kim/Paul/Billy record a video with him singing the ditty “Lovely Linda” from his first solo album as “Vivacious Velna,” as a present for her birthday, but gave it to her a bit early in Honolulu. She was so thrilled, and became so amorous, we found ourselves delayed a few more days. Evil’s work is never done. Still, by the time we got back, I was finally ready to present a plan that had been forming in my brain during the long hours of orgiastic mayhem that accompany traveling with shape shifting Reptilians who love to party.

“It’s simple; the one sure way to get to Hillary is offer to pay her a few hundred thousand for a speech on the world economy or something. Then, she comes to us, and her time is scheduled, so she has to listen. I might not be able to convince her, but it’s worth a shot. To be honest, I've run out of other ideas.”

Spade and Archer were dubious, having heard stories of her quick temper and cutting left hook. Velna trusted my judgment, but I could see the concern in her face. Either that, or she had drank one too many Mai Tai at the luau the night before.

“Look,” I countered, “I’m not saying it’s a perfect plan, but it’s better than sitting here on our butts not knowing what to do. What if Americans had done that when destiny called in the past? We wouldn’t have the country we do now to undermine and corrupt, that’s what!”

Velna noted that we had our ammonia company, and that we could leverage that into a bogus industry group called “Toxic Gas Venting Association (TGVA),” which we got our lackeys started on immediately. We got a mailbox with a real street address, printed up some impressive stationary, and sent off an invitation to Hillary to speak on government policy towards leaky gasbags. We waited what seemed weeks, mostly because it was, but all we heard were crickets.

I’m never the first to admit defeat, but this time I was. It was back to the drawing board, but first some brainstorming over a lavish lunch at “22,” the trendy Manhattan restaurant that’s one-up on “21.” Velna and I were on time, a habit she picked up being a paid assassin, when being a few seconds late might mean some innocent doesn’t get murdered. Spade and Archer were late, or course (don’t ask), so we had a few drinks while waiting, specialty “22 Martinis” that consisted of 22 regular martinis dumped into a giant novelty glass with their logo on the side. Velna got her’s “dirty,” that is, with floor sweepings added before shaking, not stirring. Needless to say, by the time the two Pindars got there, I had to visit the little boy’s room. Strangely, Spade checked his smart phone as I excused myself from the table.

“Great, their bathroom is on the list,” he murmured under his breath. A bathroom being "on the list” didn’t sound like a good thing, so I stopped and asked WTF he was talking about. He showed me the app on his phone.

“It’s called i-Pee, and not only shows you the nearest bathroom that supports the Pee ‘n Pay system, but measures and logs the amount to your account and shows you up-to-date totals. Earth-phones today have some amazing capabilities.”

“Pee and pay?” I said quizzically, “I thought this place was classy enough you wouldn’t have to drop a dime to enter a stall, especially considering the prices they charge for drinks.”

“Don’t be silly,” chided the deviant Draconian, “you don’t pay them, they pay you. And quite a petty penny, today’s New York market quote is $826.80 a barrel or $5.20 a liter.”

“That’s crazy!” I said, laughing, “Who would pay that kind of money for ordinary pee? I mean, besides Satan, and then he’s not paying for it so much as the delivery system.”

“They’re not the only ones, there’s another called ‘Pee-Bay,” reportedly one named ‘Urine The Money’ is about to be released and a “Pokemon-Has-To-Go” is in the works. It’s spreading like wildfire going viral, as the kids say now-a-days.”

I shook my head, finding it hard to believe. Still, being no fool, I installed the app on my phone, and made a quick ten bucks taking a very long whiz. Thinking that there was no accounting for some of the things you found online, I returned to the table to find my three companions scrutinizing the latest (noon edition) of the Wall Street Journal. Velna looked up, seriously concerned, then put her finger on the page and started reading.

“Markets are reeling after the latest moves by Black Dragon Chemicals, Ltd. to corner the urine market. Using their new ‘Pee ‘n Pay’ system, they are reportedly siphoning off the word’s urine to make urea to use as an ammonia feedstock. Trading was brisk, and according to analysts now comprise 16% of the world’s economy. The reported customer, TGVA, is a shadowy corporation about which little is known, but it is rumored to be the leader of the urine consortium, or ‘Big Pee’ as it’s known in investment circles.”

“TGVA? Where have I heard that before,” I wondered aloud.

“That’s the phony name we came up with for an industry association to lure Hillary to a meeting thinking it was a paid speech,” clarified Velna. “You should remember, it was in one of the first paragraphs of this chapter, and has a call to it flashing on your phone right now.”

Sure enough, it was a forwarded call from our fake-company, and I soon found myself talking to a high-power Wall Street booking agent. Much to my surprise, he was inquiring about whether “Big Pee” was interested in having a former first lady and secretary of state speak at an industry meeting or something!

To be continued…

[Pottapaug1938]

Of COURSE, pee is a valuable commodity. Where do you think Budweiser, Coors and Miller get the main ingredient for their "lite/light" beers?

[The Observer]

Of COURSE, pee is a valuable commodity. Where do you think Budweiser, Coors and Miller get the main ingredient for their "lite/light" beers?

The Confederate States relied on urine during the Civil War for gunpowder production - even to the point of requiring Southern belles to collect their urine and turn it over to the government.

[Deep Knight]

The Confederate States relied on urine during the Civil War for gunpowder production - even to the point of requiring Southern belles to collect their urine and turn it over to the government.

I once read an article about soldier's songs during the civil war that included a few that addressed the source of the saltpeter in their gunpowder. As a chemist I can assure you that the primitive process they used would have broken down any sex-specific odor-causing substances, but apparently common soldiers didn't know this. So, there were ditties along the line of, "when he raised his riffle ... the smell being associated with lady-parts caused his other parts to rise as well." Or something like that (you can see why I don't write song lyrics). My initial thought, which I still holds, was that this wasn't very complimentary to their sweethearts' practices of personal hygiene.

“That When A Lady Lifts Her Skirt, She Shoots A Horrid Yankee.” The Story Of Confederate Women’s Urine And The Manufacture Of Gunpowder.
by Daniel Russ on June 18, 2012

One of the memes about the Civil War that frequently circulates is that the South was dirt poor and the North was fairly affluent. This was mostly true. It followed then that most of the industry, especially the extremely technical industries like chemical manufacturing, or steel working would be in the industrial northeast. So the Confederates were stumped when they were looking for sources of saltpeter, or nitre, or potassium nitrate, the third ingredient in gun-powder. The answer came from an inventor.

A chemist named Jonathan Harrolson in 1863 figured out how to create more potassium nitrate or nitre by extracting it from urine. The men were all away fighting. But women could collect their urine out of bedpans and pour it into a huge truck pulled by a horse around town and they would make potassium nitrate out of it. A request as placed in the Selma Alabama newspaper and apparently it worked.

So various people on both sides wrote limericks about the phenomenon.

From the Confederates: “An appeal to Jonathan Harrolson”

John Harrelson, John Harrelson, you are a wretched creature,
You’ve added to this war a new and awful feature,
You’d have us think while every man is bound to be a fighter,
The ladies, bless their pretty dears, should save their pee for nitre,

John Harrelson, John Harrelson, where did you get this notion,
To send your barrel around the town to gather up this lotion,
We thought the girls had work enough in making shirts and kissing,
But you have put the pretty dears to patriotic pissing,

John Harrelson, John Harrelson, do pray invent a neater
And somewhat less immodest mode of making your saltpeter,
For “tis an awful idea, John, gunpowdery and cranky,
That when a lady lifts her skirt, she’s killing off a Yankee.

They say there is a subtle smell
That lingers in the powder;
That when the smoke grows thicker,
And the din of the battle louder
That there is found to this compound
One serious objection;
A soldier can not sniff it
Without having an erection.

From the Union

John Harrelson, John Harrelson, we’ve read in song and story
How a women’s tears through all the years have moistened fields of glory,
But never was it told before, how, ‘mid such scenes of slaughter,
Your Southern beauties dried their tears and went to making water,
No wonder that your boys are brave, who couldn’t be a fighter,
If every time he shot a gun he used his sweethearts nitre ?
And, vice-versa, what could make a Yankee soldier sadder,
Than dodging bullets fired by a pretty woman’s bladder.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QUG2U5AYVpk

[Deep Knight]

I'm sure most of my saner readers think that my adventures are fictional, but this may not be true. Details, such as the name of the secret organization doing the training, are wrong, but the "assassin" being called “human scum” can't possibly be a coincidence given my wife's pet name for me, don't cha think?

North Korea Accuses South and U.S. of Plotting to Kill Kim Jong-un
New York Times
By CHOE SANG-HUN MAY 5, 2017

SEOUL, South Korea — In a region already tense over nuclear threats, North Korea accused the South Korean and American intelligence agencies on Friday of plotting to assassinate its leader, Kim Jong-un, and it warned of an unspecified counterattack.

The North Korean government said it had recently uncovered a “hideous terrorists’ group” that the South Koreans and the C.I.A. had sent into the country on a secret mission to kill Mr. Kim with biochemical agents.

A statement carried by the country’s official news agency, KCNA, said that South Korea’s National Intelligence Service had hired a North Korean logger working in the Russian Far East in 2014 to attack Mr. Kim.

The existence of such a plot is impossible to verify. The National Intelligence Service dismissed the accusations as groundless.

North Korea is especially sensitive to any hint of criticism or threat to its leader. Even a movie version of such a threat roiled the country. North Korea is widely believed to have mounted an audacious hacking attack of Sony Pictures in 2014 as retaliation against “The Interview,” a comedy based on a fictional plot to assassinate Mr. Kim.

And when North Korea executed Mr. Kim’s uncle, Jang Song-thaek, it accused him of plotting to overthrow Mr. Kim’s government.

The fears run so high that when Mr. Kim — and, before him, his father, the dictator Kim Jong-il — was scheduled to appear in public, agents removed residents from nearby apartments, according to defectors who had served in North Korean security agencies. Even soldiers who were designated to shake hands with Mr. Kim had to wash their hands first, the defectors said.

The country’s relationship with South Korea and the United States has been particularly tense in recent months, as the North threatened to perform another nuclear test and continued to test ballistic missiles. President Trump has rattled the region with martial-sounding threats, including a recent comment that the United States could “end up having a major, major conflict with North Korea.”

On Monday, however, Mr. Trump said he was willing to meet with Mr. Kim if the circumstances were right, a departure from past sitting presidents who have shunned the North Korean leadership.

The North Korean government laid out its claims of a plot against Mr. Kim in surprising detail on Friday.

It said that officers at South Korea’s National Intelligence Service had trained the man in the assassination plot, and provided him with $20,000 and a satellite communication device. His handlers then sent the “human scum” into North Korea, giving him instructions last year on how to assassinate Mr. Kim, according to a spokesman for the North’s Ministry of State Security. The ministry serves as the North’s intelligence and secret police agency.

The plan involved bombing a military parade attended by Mr. Kim, the North Korean statement said. The South Korean spy agency later provided the man with additional cash to hire co-conspirators, the statement said.

The statement then threatened that an “anti-terrorist attack will be commenced from this moment to sweep away the intelligence and plot-breeding organizations of the U.S. imperialists and the puppet clique, the most mean and brutal hideous terrorist group in the world.” In North Korean propaganda, South Korea is regularly referred to as a puppet of the United States.

In recent years, at least three South Koreans have been arrested in North Korea and sentenced to long prison terms on espionage charges. The North is also holding at least three Americans on charges of “hostile acts,” including a Korean-American named Kim Dong-chul, whom it accused of spying for the South.

It remains impossible to verify these claims. South Korea’s National Intelligence Service dismisses them as propaganda.

North Korea has also made improbable allegations that more than 30,000 North Korean defectors who fled to South Korea in the last two decades were kidnapped by the South.

When it accused the South Korean spy agency in these cases, it usually named the C.I.A. as either a co-conspirator or the mastermind.

Still, it is highly unusual for North Korea to assert that the South’s spy agency plotted to assassinate Mr. Kim.

In recent months, as tensions intensified on the Korean Peninsula, the North has reacted stridently to news reports out of South Korea that United States and South Korean commando units were training to “decapitate” the North Korean leadership in case of war.

Over the decades, there have been occasional, unconfirmed reports of armed rebellions or assassination attempts in the North. But longtime North Korea observers say that organized subversion is highly unlikely under the North’s police state, in which huge numbers of soldiers and security agents are dedicated to the sole task of protecting Mr. Kim.

In 2004, an enormous explosion at a train station on the border with China prompted rumors of an attempt to kill Kim Jong-il, who had passed through nine hours earlier on his way back from Beijing. Two trains carrying fuel had collided, killing or injuring as many as 3,000 people, but no connection to the leader’s travel was ever confirmed.

In the fraught history of the Korean Peninsula, however, the idea of assassination attempts is not far-fetched.

In 1968, North Korean commandos came within striking distance of the South Korean president’s home, the Blue House, before being repelled. One agent caught alive said his team had snaked through the border to “slit the throat” of the South Korean leader at the time, Park Chung-hee. In retaliation, Mr. Park’s government trained a secret unit with a mission to assassinate his nemesis, Kim Il-sung, Mr. Kim’s grandfather. The unit was disbanded without carrying out its mission.

In 1983, North Korea tried to assassinate another South Korean dictator, Chun Doo-hwan, while he was visiting Burma, now Myanmar. The bombs planted by its officers destroyed the Martyrs’ Mausoleum in what was then the Burmese capital, killing 21 people, including several South Korean cabinet ministers. Mr. Chun escaped the attack because his arrival had been delayed.

The latest allegations follow the assassination of Kim Jong-nam, Mr. Kim’s estranged half brother, with a banned chemical weapon at Kuala Lumpur International Airport in February. That killing has been linked to North Korea.

[The Observer]

...ut the "assassin" being called “human scum” can't possibly be a coincidence given my wife's pet name for me, don't cha think?

Your wife calls you "Kimchi?"

[Deep Knight]

The Return of Lady P
An All New Deep Knight Adventure
Chapter 12 – The Dirtier Dozen

My mother didn’t raise her son not to take advantage of gifts that fell into his lap and started dancing, so I booked the traveling Hillary show for late in the next week, her soonest opening (normally she’s booked months in advance, but had a cancellation). Then my mind returned to developing story that was “Big Pee,” and the worldwide market in a substance most people discard without a second thought. As for perverts who get turned on by that sort of thing, I have NEVER understood this and have absolutely refused to participate in it more than that one time. OK, maybe as many as three or four, but not more than 20. But my biggest problem wasn’t one of hygiene or the lingering smell, it had to do with basic economics. It simply made no sense someone could go to a sleazy bar, drink cheap beer, pee in their disgusting bathroom, and in the end make a profit.

As I’m sure most of you remember from school, urine averages almost 1% urea, which means a 42 gallon barrel contains more than one and a half kilograms. This would mean that around 600 barrels costing more than $800 each would be needed to get a ton of the stuff, which was being sold to us at about $300. On the back of my “22” napkin I did a quick calculation, and figured they were paying about 1600 times more than they were making back. I know modern business uses some strange economic models, but this looked like a one-way trip to bankruptcy to me. Velna and the lizard boys didn’t agree.

“They’re probably getting it from ‘structuring’ or making it up on ‘derivatives.’ Maybe they’re even using ‘structured derivatives,’ who knows and who cares? The factory is humming, the calls demanding overdue payments have stopped, and life is good.”

They had a point, and I needed another “22 Martini,” this time garnished with a lemon twist instead of their trademark 22 long-rifle shell. It was nearly dark when we poured ourselves from a taxi and into a suite of suites at Trump Towers (never hurts to keep the SEC’s boss happy) and from there into dreamland. But morning brought sobriety and the return of the nagging doubt as to the firmness of our business foundation. Then, late enough in the afternoon that it was early in China, the other shoe dropped.

“I am afraid we need to re-negotiate our deal,” said the voice of the Black Dragon Master over the phone. “It seems we made a tiny mistake in our calculations and require an insignificant adjustment of 200,000 percent.”

“Sure,” I lied, “Fax that right over and I’ll take it up with our staff. It shouldn’t take more than a few days before we get back to you. Just remember, that while any negotiation is going on, the old contract is still in force and we’ll be expecting those deliveries. On time.”

I don’t speak Chinese, but what I could hear even though it was muffled, likely by the phone being covered, didn’t need a translation.

It wasn’t much later that I decided to put a call into Illuminati Headquarters. You never know when Satan might get a wild hair up his butt and come up with some stupid plan I have to fix. It was a good thing too, or I would never have found out about his plan to sell the Illuminati and go into the urine business! At first I thought I would bust a gut laughing, but then the consequences of doing real business with Satan struck me. Not only can’t you trust him, he deals with business setbacks like his Missus deals with his running around, shooting first and asking questions later. My good spirits vanished like something known for disappearing quickly, and I realized I hadn’t a moment to lose. Quickly pulling on some pants, I had the Pindars rush me to Illuminati Headquarters for a face-to-face meeting with Mr. Ugly-With-Horns himself.

“Deep! Glad you’re back from thwarting prosperity or whatever you were doing. We’ve got this great business opportunity that will allow us to get out of the dirty business of evil and into something clean. Chemical feedstocks for ammonia! It’s the latest thing, look I have the app on my phone.”

“Please tell me you haven’t signed anything?” I pleaded, knowing that the Big Guy would scribble his chicken scratch on anything if you flattered him as you shoved it into his hands.

“Just going in to do that with the Illuminati corporate sale,” he confirmed, grinning like an idiot, “There’s some French lady named Le Pen in my office who’s willing to do a stock trade with some structured derivatives. That will give us the money to buy this little gold mine that’s growing by leaps and bounds and going to be huge!”

“From the Black Dragon Society’s chemical subsidiary, right?” I asked, already knowing the answer.

“How did you guess?” Mr. Clueless asked, his shit-eating grin still not fading. He had obviously been hitting the afternoon cocktails himself. “I know we’ve had our disagreements with them in the past, but things have changed. Their Master should look into trimming the beard and the eyebrows, but they’re alrighty-right. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have some important papers to sign-a-roonie!”

To be continued…

[Deep Knight]

The Return of Lady P
An All New Deep Knight Adventure
Chapter 13 – The Thrifty Thirteen

Mindless of the danger from his horns, I threw myself in front of Satan, blocking him from taking those few cloven footsteps beyond the point of no return. “You’ve got to listen to me, it’s all a scam and/or plot by the Black Dragon Society. They’ve been pumping and dumping urine from one side of the globe to the other, setting prices that make no financial sense to lure us in, but really take us down. You’ve got to trust me! And if you don’t trust me, which I could understand given my history of violating the ‘no fraternization’ rule, I’ve got the proof right here, on this napkin!”

You might think that Satan would brush aside a man who had more than once taken the New World Order to the brink of destruction, not to mention almost ruining two of his daughter’s marriages. But, sometimes evil can be sentimental, and apparently chumming around with him for the past year, not to mention visiting him at the hospital after the incident with his wife Gladys, had reaped some rewards. Calling a team of accountants from the depths of Hell, I explained situation and showed them my figures. It took me a while to get my point across, the anally-retentive CPAs insisted we include the “22” printed on the front of the napkin somewhere, but in the end even math-challenged Satan seemed to understand that something wasn’t right here. I kept my role in the ammonia business secret, of course (what Satan and the boys don’t know about, won’t hurt ‘em and they can’t try to get a cut of). Ms. Le Pen left looking quite “put out” (I later learned she always looks that way), and I could hear the Black Dragon Master yelling five offices down from where Satan took the call, but business is business.

If things looked good, they didn’t remain so for long. Not only did the urea shipments stop, a whole bunch of app developers, who all pay us “protection,” took in on the chin when Pee ‘n Pay went belly up. And trust me, “belly up” was no position to do either of the two activities covered by that name. Luckily, there was still a lot of stale urine being held worldwide, and most holders were anxious to dump it, even at bargain basement prices. More of a problem was Kim Jong-Un et al’s anger at losing his incredibly profitable revenue stream from that other golden stream. Anger pointed specifically at me, who he called “human scum” along with demands for my execution. He even launched an ICBM with an ugly message about my prowess in the bedroom written on the side. I never take these things personally, mind you, but this just shows you how events spinning out of control can mess up even the best fiendish plan.

Two things occurred to me. First, the Black Dragon urine scheme had failed because the price would have to be 2000 times less to make economic sense. Nobody would be willing to go out of their way to pee at an approved site for what would average a tenth of a cent … except in North Korea where the per capita annual income is around $1.49! Second, the Black Dragon Family would never make a financial mistake of that magnitude, they must have been set-up. Which means it was an inside job, probably by someone on the outside. And, they had never trusted outsiders since that incident with Dr. No in the early 60’s. The answer had to be hidden in these contradictions, but thinking about them made my brain hurt, so I went with gut instinct instead.

Deep in my inter-most being I had the feeling that this was all a set-up from the word “go,” and that the former superstar turned dictator was behind it. And those are feelings I always listen to, despite the resulting paternity suits. Throwing caution to the wind, I told Satan and the Council of Twelve what I knew about Kim Jong-Un being Paul McCartney’s stand-in, Billy Shears. It came as no surprise that Paul was actually dead, we Illuminati have enough experience to believe even the slightest rumor of conspiracy, but him also being Kim Jong-Un threw them for a loop. And the Council of Twelve was pretty loopy to begin with. I took hours and a brigade of janitors with mops to regain order.

I was tired as I punched out and caught an Uber to return home, but it was a good sort of tired. Doing true evil leaves one with a feeling of satisfaction and bliss you can’t buy, at least legally in most states. Unfortunately, this same tired-but-blissful feeling caused me to let down my guard, and red flags didn’t go up when the Uber driver was Korean. It wasn’t until the purple vapor with the sickly sweet smell started entering the passenger compartment and the driver put on the gas masked that I became aware something was wrong. By then, it was too late.

To be continued…

[The Observer]

I rarely interrupt a Deep Knight tale, but this element stuck out like a sore thumb:

I was tired as I punched out and caught an Uber to return home,...

You seriously think we are going to believe you lowered your standards and took a substandard ride home? Talk about fake news! I guess the next story will open with you traveling to your next mission on a Greyhound bus...

[Deep Knight]

The Return of Lady P
An All New Deep Knight Adventure
Chapter 14 – Let It Ride!

When I came to, I was still groggy from the knock-out gas. It seemed I was surrounded by a fog, except that this fog was like spiderwebs covered in powdered sugar. Various fairies and elves were prancing around, and the bed I was laying on was a giant cupcake, playing a merry tune drawing me into its frosting to go back into a deep sleep. A sleep I knew I would never awaken from, but to tell you the truth this caper was so confusing I didn’t care.

“Wake up!” came a command with a slap. Opening my eyes, I came face to face with Kim Jong-Un, which was no big surprise. The Black Dragon Master standing next to him was.

“I knew there was a rat somewhere,” I observed groggily, “I just didn’t suspect you. In fact, it makes absolutely no sense, but I’m sure there’s some clever plot twist I don’t know about that will explain things neatly.”

“You are wrong, square eye!” said the Black Dragon Master, “But too stupid to realize it! I supposed since you are but moments away from an agonizing death, it wouldn’t hurt to reveal all to you now!”

Reaching down to the red buttons on their small belt-mounted holographic projectors, they almost simultaneously pushed them and suddenly both transformed into their true appearances. Paul McCartney I expected, but you could have knocked me over with a feather, except that I was flat on my back, when I realized the other was the late Michael Jackson!

“Billy Jean is not my lover,” the King of Pop explained, “but she had a bunch of good lawyers and public sympathy. So I faked my own death and beat it. But I missed wearing those costume uniforms that made me look like a marching band drum major or third-world dictator. Now I don’t stop ‘till I get enough.” No doubt he was referring to the fact that he was wearing an outfit that was grossly over-the-top. Once it might have once been a uniform, but was so covered with medals, ribbons, gold braid, and insignias that the original fabric was completely obscured.

“I’m sure you can guess the rest,” summarized Paul, but strangely in his Kim Jong-Un voice. Michael stopped him and grabbing both sides of his head, said, “Paul, can you hear me? I want to talk to Paul now. “ Blinking his eyes in slow motion, Paul’s entire expression changed, and he grinned.

“No worries, I’m back,” said Paul, “now where was I?”

“Telling us about how you have three multiple personalities,” I said, having a certain expertise from watching “The Three Faces of Eve” on the Late Show. His startled expression showed me I was on the right track, and since the two of them weren’t moving the story line along fast enough, I continued. “Billy didn’t replace you, he’s simply a dissociated identity! I would guess that Mr. Shears was sent to kill you and take your placed, but you turned the tables on him and he was the one who died in that car crash! But, the horror of what you had done permanently scarred your already rock-and-roll-addled brain, causing a psychosis that only grew when you took on a third personality, Kim Jong-Un! I don’t know the details about how you got rid of him, although I suspect you brainwashed him and with plastic and sexual-reassignment surgeries turn him into one of your palace’s 1000 concubines. Am I right?”

“I was warned about you,” sneered the now lividly angry McCartney or Shears, I’m not sure which personality I was talking to, “but of course I didn’t listen. Actually, I only listened to the parts about your unbelievable sexual exploits, which I quite frankly found hard to believe. If we had time to shoot the shit I would ask you to explain how a tailwind helps, and the being shot out of a canon thing. But you’re obviously too dangerous to toy with, so we need to kill you immediately! Of course, when I say ‘immediately’ I mean by agonizingly slow torture that will take days, maybe weeks. To start, we’ll sing a our piano-themed duet, ‘Ebony and Ivory,’ accompanied by the sweet sounds of us using your teeth as a keyboard and testicles as the mute and sustain pedals. Maestro, a downbeat if you please.”

To be continued…

[Deep Knight]

The Return of Lady P
An All New Deep Knight Adventure
Chapter 15 – Let ‘Er Rip!

Paul McCartney and Michael Jackson’s sappy duet about racial harmony was about to be my requiem, causing a primal urge of self-preservation to surge within my loans that compelled me to make one last try at escape. The fact that my, um, you know, “thingie” was prehensile was unknown to anyone but my beautiful wife and a significant portion of the world’s beautiful models. With this skill and a simple-but-superhuman effort, I silently untied the chains and shackles that bound me using only that appendage! The details are too lurid for publication. Suffice it to say that just as Paul/Billy/Kim leaned forward to sing, I was able to grab and then shove his old-school unidirectional cardioid microphone up his nose. Having once had this happen myself (when I mistakenly dated a possessive punk-rock vocalist), I knew the resulting pain would be debilitating and allow me to deal with Michael Jackson one-on-one.

The crafty Motown crooner moonwalked away from me at a startling speed, and extended his rhinestone-gloved hand. Realizing the sparkling crystals could also be used as prisms to control lasers, I ducked under the bed I had just finished untying myself from. A second later there was a bright flash and it burst into flames, confirming my suspicion and providing smoke to cover my retreat. It also hid Paul/Billy/Kim who was writhing on the floor, tripping me when my foot slammed into his groin, and doubling the volume of his screams. Michael was prancing around, half on his heels and half on his toes, and yelling “Woo! Woo!” as if inviting me to strike back. I learned long ago not to accept gifts given by enemies, so I kicked Paul in his nut-sack again while keeping an eye on Mr. Jackson’s every move. Suddenly, he grabbed for his crotch in time to one of the “Woos!” I realized that this was probably to activate a device hidden in his pants, and wasn’t far from the mark. As I dove for the floor yet again, two small missiles suddenly appeared on either side of his head, one from each shoulder epaulette, and fired. They missed me by mere inches, but looking up I noticed their exhaust had also set Michael’s hair on fire. I decided to add to the conflagration by tossing the bed’s already burning mattress at him and yelling, “Catch!” Funny how reflexes work, and for that matter, how flammable gold braid is. Running around and trailing increasingly large flames, other missiles and such in his outfit started combusting, giving the scene a festive “4th of July” feel. His death agonies were truly horrifying to watch, which you can if you want on my YouTube channel.

I kept Paul McCartney alive. Not only would Velna kill me if she knew I harmed a hair on his head, surveys had shown millions of now-aging female Beatles fans would commit suicide if they found out. Quite frankly, we didn’t need a lot of questions about “why Nana did herself in” confusing the Illuminati’s hidden agenda. Besides, we had just signed a contract with the US government to increase unemployment, which the job openings they left behind would reduce. And you know how our new president gets when you cross him. Still, Paul couldn’t be left unpunished or as North Korean dictator, so I sent him to a FEMA reeducation camp. I understand he’s doing quite well, entertains the other camp detainees with his old songs, and will be touring the US this summer.

As for a replacement dictator, I was all for sexual re-re-assignment for Kim Jong-Un, with some re-brainwashing to make him a bit more reasonable than his country’s leaders have been in the past, but the North Korean Communist Party was way ahead of us. Seeing their beloved leader’s behavior become more and more bizarre, even for a member of his family, they had held a secret look-alike contest in December, and had a substitute waiting in the wings. The “winner” actually came in third, being aced out by the former dictator’s two surviving brother’s Kim Jong-Bob and Kim Jongi-Cash, but the party had had their fill of that family. A quick bad haircut, and the regime was seamlessly replaced. And, the new leader thought that a few billion dollars was a lot of money, so the urine scheme was back on at reduced price. You might wonder how I brought the Black Dragon Society in on this as middlemen. After all I had killed two of their Masters in under a year, showing them great disrespect. I wondered too, but in the end just chalked it up to their being inscrutable Orientals.

As it turned out, the amount of urea produced by North Korea once their people got actual food to eat, produced almost exactly the amount of ammonia we needed to ship to the Draconian Empire. And they thought they were getting “all Earth’s ammonia!” All of it my ass, if they started drinking that much they could kiss conquering the universe goodbye. But, what they don’t know won’t hurt them. Unfortunately, what I did know could soon jump up and bite me, that is that Vladimir Putin was going crazy hiding at the palatial Clinton estate, and I as no closer to solving his problem and keeping him alive. Time was growing short before my meeting with Hillary, I had but a few minutes to catch a Greyhound bus to Washington, freshen up, and then meet the deadly Democratic contender. I swallowed hard, and hoped she had forgotten what had happened during our last meeting, or how I had exited the 16th-floor hotel suite through the bathroom window while she was “slipping into something more comfortable.”

To be continued…

[Deep Knight]

The Return of Lady P
An All New Deep Knight Adventure
Chapter 16 – You Gotta Rip It Like You Ride It

Politicians have very few useful skills, and remembering names and faces is one of them. Each time they do, the person they’re meeting is so flattered their vote is in the bag, so the successful ones learn fast. Hillary was as “politician” as they come, and also had the vote-winning characteristic of being a vindictive and deadly killer. Voters like toughness. To have any chance of this working I needed to be heavily disguised by glasses, a beard, a fake nose, and cauliflower ears.

Hillary came into our meeting room all ready to give a speech on “Urine and Government Policy in the 21st Century,” but was startled to find only me in our more-than-spacious meeting room. I had her sit down, and then in a disguised voice explained that this was to be a one-on-one discussion instead. However, a look in her eye told me something was wrong. Either she was upset about the deception, or had recognized me underneath the facial hair. Her drawing a gun from her valise confirmed that this wasn’t just my imagination.

“Well, well, well, if it isn’t Deep Knight,” she said slyly, flicking the safety off. “You have a hell of a lot of nerve showing your face to me, even if it isn’t your face.”

“No hablo Inglés,” I suggested, trying to bluff my way, out, “Yo no comprendo, Seniora.”

“Then, what is this?” she inquired, ripping my fake beard off with her empty hand. Then, she did the same to my belt, allowing her to pull down my pants and boxers. With one fell swoop, I was exposed!

“Just as I thought,” she murmured loudly, “The mark of the Rothschild Illuminati bloodline.”

“Don’ play dumb,” I suggested, “You knew it was me with my trousers on. You did that just for fun.”

“No,” she retorted, “I needed to see the entire package. Um, I mean this whole thing. No wait, that’s not quite phrased right. I mean, what the @#$! is this subterfuge and getting me alone in this room? If Satan is pissed at me because I haven’t delivered, tell him that he’s going to have to wait until 2020.”

“This has nothing to do with Satan,” I explained, “In fact, he doesn’t even know I’m here. This is my wife and my side business, sort of a mom ‘n pop ammonia shop. I just needed to talk to you, but was afraid that you might be a teensy bit irked by what happened in Las Vegas, and later in the Bellagio fountain.”

She lowered her gun, “I have to admit I was upset, and dreamed about killing you for years, but realized that was more because of my own loneliness than anything you had done. And, if I can put up with Bill, I can put up with anyone. Besides, I’m not mad at the world anymore, I’m actually happy! I met this Russian monk who is staying in a wing of our house I thought was closed off and I used to occasionally to smoke some weed, I mean, ‘meditate.’ Not only did he join me ‘meditating,’ we spent the night making mind-blowing love! We’ve been inseparable since.”

“Does this guy wear funny hat, have a big wooden cross around his neck and a big bushy beard, sort of like the guys from ZZ Top?” I asked.

“How did you know? Have you met my Razpootie? He came along with me, I’ll invite him in! But first pull up your pants; I wouldn’t want him to get the wrong idea.”

I knew from bitter experience that women tended to get upset when they found everything you've told them was a lie, and I suspected that Hillary was no different. It seemed that there was no way to avoid the oncoming train wreck, but we Illuminati are known for never saying “die” and such. Actually, I’ve said “die” quite a few times, mostly as a command or request punctuated by hot lead, but that’s neither here nor there. The point is, a way out of this mess suddenly occurred to me, and contacting the Pindars and Velna via a group Tweet, I laid out my fiendish plan, in 140-character-or-less segments. I got conformation not a moment too soon, as Hillary and a disguised Vladimir returned.

“It’s like removing a Band-Aid,” I announced, “In that it’s better to do it quickly and get it over with.” Hillary’s confusion showed in her face, turning to horror as I grabbed her paramour’s beard and pulled. With my other hand I ripped away his robes and vestments, to reveal a bare-chested Vladimir Putin. If I’m not mistaken, he had oiled and polished his pecs before getting dressed that morning.

“Putin!” shrieked Hillary, pulling way and pointing her Luger pistol directly at his heart.

“Baby, I can be explaining!” lied Vladimir as he shot me a look that was both angry and confused. “I am to knowing I deceived you, but was only unimportant things; example being who I was and real name. But all other things, about lovings, needing lubricant, and respecting you in morning were being truth!” Putin, using those famous puppy-dog eyes of his to their full advantage, continued, “I am admitting for first time was only to saving own behind, but more I am knowing you, more I am being in love. If nights of loving hanging from hooks in ceiling mean nothing, then to be shooting me!”

I could see Hillary’s trigger finger tighten and for a moment was afraid I had gone too far. But just then, the wall behind me came crashing down revealing a literal army of zombies dressed in American-flag-pattern clothing and red baseball caps. “Lock her up! Lock her up!” they chanted in an unhuman drone, as dragging decaying body parts they surged forward very slowly, murder in what was left of their eyes.

To be continued…

[Deep Knight]

The Return of Lady P
An All New Deep Knight Adventure
Chapter 17 – Slam Dunk Dance

As the herd of Tea-Bagger, er, Freedom Caucus Zombies advanced on our position from what had been the front office, Vladimir threw his naked-from-the-waist-up body over Hillary, his first instinct to protect the woman he apparently loved. Crazy world, ain’t it? My instincts have always been more practical, so reaching into my double-wide shoulder holster I produced two oversized 50 caliber automatics which I had specially modified to take elephant cartridges, and threw one to Putin. Sure, some people think it’s overkill to put a 12 inch hole in people when a 6 inch one will suffice, but I always figured that any job worth doing was worth doing bigly. Zombie fur was flying in every conceivable direction as we unloaded a hailstorm of death into the advancing undead. Hillary, who I thought was unarmed, had somehow smuggled knives in with her, and from behind Vladimir’s torso was throwing them at the advancing hoards. You would think that mere steel blades would be ineffectual against zombies, but she had this technique were they spun as they flew, usually severing multiple heads like a weed-eater gone berserk. I have to admit that I was impressed.

In under 3 minutes it was all over, well, except for the gurgling of flowing blood. Hillary pulled herself up using Vladimir’s chest hair, and gazed into his steel-grey eyes with a look of admiration instead of contempt. “You … You really DO love me!” she concluded, “Only love in its purest and unselfish form could overcome your animal instinct to save yourself, and prove to my analytical satisfaction that even when you were lying you were still telling the truth! Take me, you Cossack Casanova!”

“I am not wanting to live without you also being living,” Vladimir stuttered in his horrible accent and bad syntax, but Hillary didn’t seem to care as she smothered him with kisses and grabbed for his belt. Oblivious to my presence, or for that matter the pervasive blood and body parts, the perverted pair decided to re-consummate their relationship right there and then. Always the gentleman, I gave them their privacy (I trusted that Velna and the lizard boys would be recording it), but didn’t go so far afield that I couldn’t hear and see when they finally finished and left, skipping, holding hands, and giggling.

“Well, that’s finally over with,” I sighed, pushing the reset button on the holographic projector and making the bodies, blood, and structural damage disappear as if by magic. Luckily, I had remembered that the Pindars had installed the holographic “theatre system with surround sound” in the room for video conferencing with the home planet, although it was almost exclusively used for their video games. They had simply loaded up “Call of Duty – Zombie Apocalypse,” modified the clothing using pictures from a Trump rally, turned up the sub-woofers, and let ‘er rip. I’ve always said that the best plans are the simple ones. Once we patched up the actual holes in the wall left by my pair of pistols, and of course mopped up the puddle of mixed body fluids left by our imprudent lovers, we were back up and ready for business!

Students of future history know the rest. Leaking worse than an old Russian submarine, Vladimir saw to it that his dalliances with Hillary’s election opponent, who she hated worse than she used to detest him, were slowly made public. I understand from Velna (you know how girls talk in the locker room), that Hillary got so much pleasure out of each one that they used the steady drip, drip, drip of breaking cable news reports as foreplay. To each his-or-her own, I prefer good old-fashioned leather, latex and lingerie. Putin’s clone, who had been making public appearances and playing hockey in Russia, stayed on the job, allowing the star-crossed lovers to keep crossing stars. But to be honest, the best thing of all was that the randy Russian stopped sending me flowers and candy, not to mention having THAT look in his eyes and trying to paw me every time we met. How women put up with this, from everyone but me of course, is beyond me.

Oh yeah, and outside of my personal life, tensions with North Korea cooled, a reconditioned Paul McCartney made up with the Tavistock Institute and had a hit with a re-make of “When I’m 64” as “When I was 64,” and the world was at peace. The big guy downstairs will no doubt be pissed when he finds out about this last one, but I’m pretty sure I covered my tracks well enough he’ll never know it’s my fault. I understand his biggest gripe about the whole incident was the cost of his sick sexual perversion when the Pee ‘n Pay bubble caused urine prices to soar. I'm told that by the time they came back down (ah, the invisible hand of the pee market), he had lost interest.

Sadly, we never did figure out who “Lady P” was, or how this caper concerned her. Some things are fated to remain mysteries, like why some girls find mass-murder unromantic. Go figure.

Stay tuned for the next Deep Knight adventure, “Murder on the Installment Plan.”

[Deep Knight]

You just can't make this stuff up about making stuff up.

In March, one of the counter talking points about Russian influence in the election was, "They should look into Hillary's connection to the Russians." This was mostly based on a conspiracy theory involving a Uranium mining company's ownership, which is so easily debunked the people spreading it should be ashamed. However, I ran with it and wrote it into my most recent story - although I'm the first to admit I pushed its boundaries over the lines of good taste and sanity. What can I say, it's my job.

Today I became aware of a new talking point once again related to Mrs. Clinton and Russia, first on early TV news (from a Trump-supporting pundit) and later online. It sort of goes like this:

1. They should look into Hillary's connections to Russia! Uranium!
2. And, the leaked information coming out drip, drip, drip is damaging, which in itself is suspicious.
3. Isn't it likely that Hillary, who made up this Russia-Trump conspiracy theory in the first place, is conspiring WITH Putin to first interfere with the election and then destroy Trump through leaks about this interference?

OK, so there's no sex, which says something about my imagination and those of the people who are spreading this. And while wouldn't Putin simply interfere to help Hillary in the fist place? Still, it's the same basic conspiracy theory. And you read it here first!