An All-New Deep Knight Adventure

[Deep Knight]

The Covfefe Incident
An All Even-Newer Deep Knight Adventure
Chapter Ten – The Prince Was a Showgirl

Events in eastern Oregon had unwittingly conspired to burst my more-witting conspiracy. Thousands of eclipse buffs were starting to descend on Malheur National Forest and Wildlife Refuge to watch the eclipse. Not only were they in the path of totality, they had a good chance of clear skies, or so the weather forecasters through. Hearing about the gathering, a few percent of Three Percenters, Prison-Planeteers, and Truly-Unorganized Militias decided this was delayed support to the recent armed occupation. Rising to the illusionary bait, they packed up their dusty, dented pickups, put on their Sunday-best camo uniforms, and whizzed across the desert to Oregon. Meanwhile, the Forest Service, mindful that idiots would block roads in the path of totality by parking along them, decided to prevent this causing harmful road closures by closing all roads a week before the event. Dodged a bullet there. Unfortunately, such high-handed acts by the government tended to make the even higher-handed militias militant, and the situation was primed to be explosive.

This already fuming keg of misunderstanding was added to by Hillary, who chartered a fleet of black helicopters to ferry her and her crack commando campaign staff to the secret uranium mines at land seized by the federal government. Their goal was to stop shipments to Putin’s Russia until he and Hillary kissed and made up, which I estimated would come at about the same time that Hell froze over. Then, the only organization more fraught with lies than the New World Order added their two cents of dynamite to the melting pot. TV weathermen forecasted a heavy overcast for all of eastern Oregon!

Imagine the scene, if you will. In the center, tens of thousands of eclipse viewers were getting set to bug out. Like refugees fleeing a war at the Refuge, they would drive west to Wyoming, where the forecast was still for clear skies. From the west, Hillary, her campaign staff and the Ukrainian officials they colluded with, were helicoptering in. From the east, would-be-Humvee hoards made mostly of ratty pickup trucks were treading rarely-tread roads to escape government detection. To the south, a militia contingent from the Bundy Ranch (where Al retired after “Married with Children”) was approaching with guns locked and loaded and chips on their shoulders. To the north all roads through the path of totality were blocked by green-uniformed jack-booted rangers. It was as if an iron curtain had descended on the path of totality which no living creature could pass. You didn’t have to have eleven calendar years in military academies to know that the world would soon see the greatest battle the world has ever seen.

It was Hillary who muffed the whole thing up. Sure, it kept our “Kill Trump” directive on track, but that level of carnage would have been fun to watch. Off course, no doubt due to the helicopters being loaded down by private e-mail servers, they swerved into restricted air space in the path of totality, causing a bit of an over-reaction by the National Forest Service and Bureau of Land Management (NFS and BLM). Luckily for Hillary, her helicopters were of the latest stealth technology and the guided missiles and killer drones all missed, hitting concentration of migrating wildlife instead. The resulting explosions diverted the militia approaching from the east towards the south, where they met the militias going north. It’s said over 100,000 rounds of ammunition were expended in the resulting gun battle. If so it’s a miracle that nobody was seriously injured, and of course a red flag that they need more practice at the riffle range. Their vehicles and water storage containers were not so lucky.

The low cloud cover that would cause problems for eclipse viewers had already come in, obscuring events from the eclipse viewers view. But the loud explosions and flashes convinced them to try and exit through Burns east via US 20 towards the safety of Boise Idaho. There, they met the footsore and thirsty remnants of the militia armies in what has become known to history as the Battle of Stinkwater Pass. Once again, the only casualties were those who tripped rushing to surrender or against advice drank the laxative-laden water. It was the first victory by an unarmed mobile force over well-armed infantry since the 1964 New York World’s Fair.

To be continued…

[Deep Knight]

The Covfefe Incident
An All Even-Newer Deep Knight Adventure
Chapter Eleven – Under the Heartburn of Darkness

Hillary was besides herself with glee, cackling and doing a painfully-white dance as the uranium shipments got locked down, shaped up, and shipped out. Nothing says “up yours” like messing with your ex-lover’s fissionable material and then posting pictures of it all over social media. She and her team were also happy to have come out unscathed, the guided missiles sent against her landing harmlessly in the forest where they caused massive fires, and the pot shots taken by the various militias poorly aimed or out of range. Other times we haven’t been so lucky. It’s the fact that all our helicopters are black that gets them shot at, a design defect that should have been fixed years ago. Quite frankly, the Imperial Illuminati Air Force’s Supreme Commander needs to can the people he has now and get a design team that knows how to use bold colors.

An urgent message got me out of eastern Oregon and rushing back to Washington DC on the big guy’s private jet (which, ahem, I had sort of borrowed – I mean, he was flat on his back in bed …). Satan was getting better and wanted an executive update first thing Monday morning. His legendary digestive system had finally finished chewing the toxins up and spitting them out. A good physical attribute to have if you’re gonna swallow souls and some of the things that get grilled on our fire altars whole. A few quick payoffs, and Satan’s 747 was back in its reserved space, and I as on my way to his plush lowest-level-of-Hell office.

Satan wasn’t interested in the least in what I had been doing, but started with items obviously from the cable TV he had been watching while laid up. “Tell me again why we don’t have these alt-Right guys in the New World Order,” he stupidly asked, impressed both at their level of evil and style, “they seem to be right up our ally, especially the Klan and neo-Nazis. I loved the torch parade, and they’re snappy dressers too.”

I patiently explained that being against the New World Order was sort of their “thing,” you know, core of their mission statement. Sure they were evil, but of the wrong style and flavor. They were sour to our salty, bitter to our sweet, yin to our whang-dang yang. Which really disappointed the Prince of Darkness. As most of you know he loves gaudy military uniforms, but the recent mocking of the North Korean generals had put him off excessive medal displays. The punk-militia look he had been seeing on cable news must have impressed him with its bold, fresh approach. Either that, or he got excited by old-school chaos and violence and his own fond memories of similar activities in his youth.

The Father of all Lies may have been disappointed , but he was still upbeat. I finally got enough hints to realize that he and the President had “kissed and made up,” in a series of conciliatory tweets ending in a long 4:00 AM phone call. “The Devil’s Apprentice” cable show was back “on,” and they were meeting for golf that afternoon. Desperate for friends after recent events, President Trump was scraping the bottom of the barrel, Satan’s exclusive neighborhood. I was naturally disappointed, wanting both revenge and the inner satisfaction that comes from massive homicide, but at least I didn’t have to finish planning for a coup d’etat. Sure, the initial brainstorming where you get to consider all sorts of crimes against humanity is fun, but addressing all the details gets really tedious.

Happy that things were back to normal, I suddenly realized that Satan expected us to cancel the whole solar eclipse thing! My first clue was when he not only stated this clearly, but linked my physical safety to it. By this time, the start was mere minutes away and that train had left the station, but with luck we could stop the holographic Nibiru projection and the accompanying subliminal suggestions. Then, the whole thing would become a simple massive traffic jam, tormenting millions of drivers. No different from most Mondays, when you think about it.

To be continued…

[Deep Knight]

The Covfefe Incident
An All Even-Newer Deep Knight Adventure
Chapter Twelve – The Long Road Home

Our plan worked perfectly, or would have if we had carried it out. The path of totality, its rural, conservative population doubled by urban, liberal outsiders, was a tinder box waiting for a hot date. Gas stations and restaurants were closed, sucked dry by the ravenous mobs, and the only items left at supermarkets were tiki torches and torch fluid. Already frayed nerves, tormented by forecasts of epic traffic jams on all routes home, were beyond their breaking point and almost ready to give. Truly a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity for mass barbarism and mob rule was being wasted. Luckily I were able to exploit the event at my other gig, interstellar ammonia exporting. We used the eclipse to send off a big shipment during daylight hours. By flying the ships to the north when everybody was looking south towards the sun, we avoided energy-intensive cloaking, substantially increasing their gas mileage and our profits.

The next morning I discovered that there was another fly in the ointment. The Federal Prison holding Heather Tucci-Jaraf was by coincidence both in the path of totality and next to a religious commune. This particular sect believed the sun would only be restored if they destroyed all works of the “lord of darkness,” starting with the local electrical substation. Silly unenlightened fools, all they would have had to do is bang on some drums (in a pinch, pots and pans will do). Anyway, one of the places that lost power was the prison, and in the darkness Heather escaped with her cell-mate “Big Alice,” into a mass of snarled traffic on the nearby interstate. Federal Marshalls were quick to respond, but pursuit was hampered by glacial driving speeds and the law officers’ inbred impatience. Unable to go forward, backwards, or even stop and get donuts, many soon grew bored and abandoned the chase. Heather, her survival instincts honed by opportunities for soul growth in Morocco, was proving to be as slippery as a lubed-up trout. And she would be twice as hard to rope and brand, but I knew that if we didn’t, everything we had worked so hard for could be swept away in an instant!

Satan was in a foul mood, not as the result of his recent gastrointestinal distress or Heather’s escape, but because he had looked at the eclipse without the special glasses and strained his eyes. One would think that eyes that glowed red like burning coals couldn’t get more burnt, of that the master of a secret empire would be smarter than that, but there you are. I cheered him up with the news that part of the new “surge” in Afghanistan would involve mercenary troops, and we were being asked to bid the services of our Army of the Dead. Once they completed their cable TV contract, of course. The Illuminati have learned the hard way not to cross Hollywood.

The news from the manhunt for Heather and Big Alice wasn’t good. A couple of times during the night police had gotten within a hundred feet of her, but by the time traffic progressed that far (up to an hour), she was long gone. Not only did she cleverly escape our dragnet, she convinced drivers that a nearby gas station had secret reserves that actually had belonged to them from birth! All they needed to do was pay her a processing fee, get their routing number, drive to the Shell Station on Seventh, and fill ‘er up for free! It’s estimated she escaped with over $50,000 from this scam, the bulk of it in ones and change which was carried in an oversized rolling suitcase by Big Alice.

Law enforcement didn’t know where Heather was going, but I did. She had never forgiven me for that little misunderstanding, or the major surgery required to fix it. Some girls just don’t know how to let go, cowboy up, hoist sail, cut bait, and move on. I sat in my office with the lights out, wearing a fedora and smoking an unfiltered cigarette, barrel of my 45 resting on my shoulder, waiting for the inevitable showdown.

To be continued…

[Deep Knight]

The Covfefe Incident
An All Even-Newer Deep Knight Adventure
Chapter Thirteen – Lucky Seven

I heard the whirl of the elevator first, then its muffled clang as it stopped at its floor. My office’s floor. The footsteps that followed were unmistakably Heather’s, they beat out a rhythm that approximated her chanting of Latin legal terms in her online videos. “Nunc pro tunc,” they seemed to repeat over and over. I leveled my automatic at the door and waited for her to enter, no doubt hoping to catch me napping.

To my great surprise, it wasn’t Ms. Tucci-Jaraf, but President Donald Trump! He was dressed in a translucent black negligee, which with his orange skin and pumpkin girth, gave him a Halloween-meets-Transvestite-Playboy sort of look. Hideous. I stared in disbelief, waiting for the bullets I knew he wanted to introduce me to, both because we Illuminati were trying to destroy him, and that thing about his wives considering me the only real man they had ever known in a biblical sense. I always say, what happens in Vegas, Paris, Des Moines, or Ljubljana, stays in Vegas, Paris, Des Moines, or Ljubljana, but that wasn’t important now. I needed to know why he was in my office, dressed like a tart, his glowing pompadour and unnaturally orange face suddenly obscured by a rush of ice water.

Knocked almost out of my chair, dripping wet, and spitting water, I found myself waking up next to my desk in my office. I must have dozed off, and what I had experienced was all just a dream. I relaxed and focused my eyes, but what I saw put me back in full defensive mode. It was Hillary, dressed in a translucent black negligee, holding one of those bright-orange, insulated Gator-Aid coolers they use to drench coaches in ice water after football wins. I keep one in my office for just that purpose, we Illuminati never get tired of winning. With her in the seductive bedroom attire next to the big, orange cooler, it was easy to see how these images had been added to my dream, with horrible results. What I couldn’t see was why she had tried to drown me, or for that matter had shown up in my office dressed like the desperate floozy Trump. Luckily, without further ado, she explained it to me.

“I’m so sorry Deep, but I didn’t know what else to do when I saw you were asleep. You see, I need you! I need you now, or after you’ve had a minute to dry off with a towel! Can’t you see I’m a woman in need of a real man, a woman with desires, a woman willing to throw herself at your feet! Take me, you fool!”

I wanted to roll my eyes at Hillary’s desperation and debasement, but knowing that she was going to be sensitive and likely homicidal about being a woman scorned, I decided to not pile on the insults. “Baby,” I said in my best honey-sweet voice, “you know I’m married and faithful to my jealous and sniper-trained wife. Sometimes we have to deny what our hearts want because it’s our duty, and necessary for self-preservation. I’m sure you understand.”

She didn’t and instead proposed a counter argument that started with a hot, wet kiss and tried to go directly to third base afterwards. She was like an octopus, with hands everywhere, both all over me with enough in reserve to remove her flimsy, black garment. I was reaching for my Bowie knife when I heard the elevator whirl again.

“Quick,” I observed, “it’s Heather Tucci-Jaraf coming here to kill me. Don’t worry, we’ll finish this later, but first you have to hide in the copier supplies closet, right over there.”

“Heather Tucci-Jaraf!” Hillary exclaimed, “That crazy slut! She kept sending me bogus UCC documents which kept my team of lawyers in stitches for hours, hours billed at hundreds of dollars each! I’d be happy to kill her for you, that is, if you’re will to show your gratitude afterwards, preferably on top of her still-warm corpse.”

I had to decline Hillary’s disturbing offer, both in order to keep my marriage vows and sanity. “I’m sorry, we need to have a confrontation where she, figuring I’m about to die, reveals her secret strategy so that I can thwart it once I turn the tables and kill her instead. I’ve done it a thousand times, twice already this week, so if you don’t mind…” Patting Hillary on her lily-white behind, I shuffled her off to the closet and just made it back to a gun-leveling pose behind my desk, just as the door slowly opened for the second time that night.

To be continued…

[notorial dissent]

No more kumquat and guacamole pizza for you....nosiree...no more...

[Burnaby49]

Agreed. He's moved solidly into nightmare territory with that post.

[The Observer]

I keep telling you guys we need to organize an intervention...

[Deep Knight]

Nightmares are nothing new to us purveyors of evil, our consciences tormented by our many heinous sins and inability to know right from wrong. What can I say, it's horrible, but it's a living. I suggest self medication via a handful of Advils washed down with a fifth, er, 750 mL of Old Overcoat. Breakfast of champions.

[Deep Knight]

The Covfefe Incident
An All Even-Newer Deep Knight Adventure
Chapter Fourteen – A Fortnight of Fury

The door slowly opened, almost creaking except that it was silent, oil on the hinges having done a great job. I sat sweating, hoping that Heinous Heather would hurry things up, it was late and I wanted to be at home in bed. She finally stood in the doorway, her silhouette strangely proportioned, not to mention that it included horns. Finally, the slightest whiff of a sulfurous odor, followed by an asphyxiating blast straight from the source, clued me into the fact that my wee-hour visitor was Satan himself.

“How’s it hangin’, Deep!” he inquired, in what I took to be a form of greeting, “I couldn’t sleep, didn’t feel like tweeting from the toilet, and so decided to see what was happening upstairs.” I snickered, realizing that his wife Gladys’ continuing ire was doubtlessly the source of his insomnia, it’s hard to sleep when you-know-what could happen at any moment. “How ‘bout one for my baby, and one for the road?” I shuttered at the thought of matching Satan shot for shot, especially those witches’-brew Polynesian cocktails he like to mix. I had often thought about of booby trapping The Prince of Darkness’ in-office bar, it would be easy to put a grenade in a pineapple, mercury switch and detonator in a cocktail shaker, or pipe bomb in a paper umbrella. But the all-too-familiar whirl of the elevator snapped me out of my mirthful fantasy and back into reality. “Quick,” I instructed the Prince of Darkness, “Hide in the bathroom! Don’t ask questions, but don’t come out until I give the all clear. And if you use the facilities, for god’s sake turn on the fan this time.”

I readied myself once more, knowing that in these sort of suspenseful situations the third time was always the charm. Unfortunately, this situation wasn’t one of these types, and my next visitor turned out to be plural visitors, the six Slice Girls. No doubt they had heard that The Evil One was on the prowl and were looking to be invited to join us for a free drink, but there wasn't time for them to explain and I shuffled them off to the bathroom to join its hopefully-inactive resident while the elevator once again whirled out a warning. But this time that warning was real, as my visitor turned out to be the actual POTUS, Donald Trump, dressed in the exact same Victoria Secret item that Hillary had been wearing and I had hallucinated in the last chapter. You gotta admit that’s an amazing coincidence, I mean, what are the odds? Bui I didn’t have time to consider this, or for that matter feel the appropriate measure of revulsion, because the hard-working elevator was once again active. I had Satan’s on-again-off-again friend hide in the bathroom with Satan and the girls, knowing whatever perversion was going on in there, he was properly dressed.

To save time I’ll simply list my next few visitors, and stipulate I had to hide them behind things in my office, like the FAX machine and fire altar. Spade and Archer (the two Reptilian Pindars), Henry Kissinger, Dennis Rodman, Pamela Anderson, Mick Jagger, Sara Palin, and Conan O’Brian. It was almost dawn, and I was getting ready to pack it up, herd my hidden visitors out of my office (I keep a cattle prod in my desk just for that purpose), and go home. Suddenly, without warning, the elevator whirled again, and against my better judgement I decided to give it one more shot. I’m sorry I did, because this time to my amazement it was actually Heather standing at my door, flanked by a more-than-beefy lady who must have been Big Alice. Having the drop on her, I smiled and invited her in, prepared for the worst. But I wasn’t prepared for what happened next, as an explosion ripped from one end of my office to the other. In my memory it happened in slow motion, my ill-spent life flashing before my eyes, as if I instinctively knew the end was near, that this evil adventure couldn’t continue forever!

To be continued…

[Deep Knight]

The Covfefe Incident
An All Even-Newer Deep Knight Adventure
Chapter Fifteen – Repent, the End is Nigh!

Forensic analysis after-the fact-showed the explosion started in the office, eyewitnesses say after President Trump decided to sit on toilet. He wanted to tweet a picture of the girls clowning around with swords and the bidet nozzle, and he can only do early-morning tweets from, um, a certain location. Some sort of force-of-habit, obsessive-compulsive, psychological thing. Unfortunately, nature involuntarily took its course, resulting in a rude surprise that surpassed even Satan’s corrosive emissions. It’s from eating at his resort’s restaurants, establishments legendary in Health Department citation lore. The mass exodus was sudden and explosive, with even The Big Guy trying to quickly put as much distance between him and the smell as possible. Hillary, letting her curiosity get the best of her, came rushing from her closet, and there was a domino effect as they swept along the people and alien creatures hiding in my office. This mass of humanity collided with a sickening, bone-spitting crunch near the front door, exactly the location Heather and Big Alice had been occupying. Untangling the dazed victims, it turned out that almost all of the noise had come from Big Alice’s massive bone fractures and internal injuries. Her being “big boned” turned out to be more than an excuse for her size, and as you know the bigger the bone, the bigger the “snap, crackle & pop” when it breaks.

Heather had been knocked silly and was still acting strangely, which of course was normal for her. She was muttering incoherently, trying to serve papers to the rubber tree near the windows when Security finally showed up to take her away. I had decided to send her back to prison, knowing that hideously drawn-out and painful execution was too good for her. And I wanted to give Big Alice’s former paramours in the big house a chance for revenge. I had seen her many tattoos, most bespeaking tragic and dominant-submissive love affairs “behind the lace curtain.” Or at least I thought they did, it was kind of hard to see them clearly given the lacerations, protruding bone shards, and bruises.

Hillary, embarrassed to be seen near President Trump, especially since he looked better in that negligee than she did, ducked out next. The President, sheepishly grinning over his bathroom embarrassment, blamed the smell on Hillary, looked bored, and left immediately afterwards. I didn’t mind, because besides being used as a foil for bathroom humor, it was unclear why he came by in the first place. The others, regardless of what side of the political fence they thought was to blame, were close behind him, some before their faces had lost the green tint. All except Satan, that is, who both was more immune to such smells, their being part of the job in Hell, and whose serious expression told me he had something equally serious to talk about.

I was beat, and hoped it could wait until morning, or at least until the bathroom fan had cleared the air, but events were rushing forward faster than that. “Deep,” began The Father of All Lies, “I made a great deal with Trump just now in the little boys room. You know that contract we’re bidding for in Afghanistan, to supply a mercenary and/or dead army to take care of business? Well, I just closed a sweet cost-plus deal to take care of the nuclear ICBM problem in North Korea, without having to bid or nothin’! He thinks he’s such a good negotiator, well, I showed him the art of my deal! And, as a further shrewd business move, I’m putting you in charge!”

I nodded, knowing my warrior skills were beyond belief. No sense in being modest or coy when you’re the best. “I take it I’ll lead in a small force, say the Slice Girls and a couple other surgically-enhanced, scantily-clad sex bombs, to infiltrate, obfuscate, and eliminate. Yes?”

“No!” concluded Satan, forcefully yet timidly, “We’re attacking by air, using a single jet and volunteer pilot who knows the odds are he’ll never return. And that volunteer is you!”

To be continued…

[Deep Knight]

The Covfefe Incident
An All Even-Newer Deep Knight Adventure
Chapter Sixteen – Darkest Hour My @#$!

I arose, startled, shocked, and stupefied. I knew Trump must have visited my office before dawn for some other reason than to stink the place up. Especially in that attire, which my keen eye told me was from the 2017 Victoria’s Secret “Dusky Desire” collection. This changed everything, but first, I needed to clue Satan in about this silly idea that I could fly a fighter plane.

“I’m flattered, ol’ buddy ol’ pal, but isn’t that the job of our brave boys in the Imperial Illuminati Air Force? After all, they show videos of all kinds of futuristic planes and airborne commando dachshunds in their presentations to the New World Order Board of Directors meetings.” I doubted The Big Guy remembered any scenes from movies that didn’t have an XXX-rating, but went on. “I’ve only flown planes during emergencies, you know, after I’ve shot and killed the pilot or something, and then badly at that. They’re the professional pilots, assassins of the air, jet jockeys not jokers. Everyone says that Imperial Illuminati Air Force pilots know how slide into the cockpit, twiddle the stick between their legs, and in the end leave only one man left standing!”

“The Imperial Illuminati Air Force!” repeated Satan in a high, mocking voice. “Those idiots haven’t flown combat for over 30 years! Instead, they’ve grown soft flying cushy chemtrail tankers and black helicopters from 9 to 5, which allows them to have a normal life outside of work. Wussies and wimps, all of them.”

“But all those videos…” I said, trailing off as I thought of the raw excitement that infused their powerful power-point presentations.

“Computer generated, all of it. That includes the wiener dog stuff too. You gotta admit thought, the scene where they’re parachuting down, bombs going off and guns blazing, was pretty exciting. “

I was shocked and stunned. One of the things that helped me get through the wearisome hours of hot sex with supermodels was the knowledge that we were protected by this unique frankfurter-shaped fighting force, an illusion that was now shattered. Oh well.

“It’s quite simple, first you line up and fly down this trench that’s lined cheek-to-jowl with lethal weapons. We whimsically call it ‘the Valley of Death.’ You’ll have to do this with their number one fighter ace, Pyongyang Pete, and his two wingmen on your tail, peppering you with machine gun fire. Then, all you have to do is hit this small thermal exhaust port, right below the main port. The shaft leads directly to the reactor system. A precise hit will start a chain reaction which should destroy…”

“Let me make this perfectly clear, I can only fly normal aircraft when it’s necessary to save my own butt, and then only badly. I wouldn’t last a second in a modern high-performance fighter jet or one of those Aurora saucers we keep at Area 51 and Studio 54. And even if I did, I wouldn’t be stupid enough to fly it down some place called ‘the Valley of Death.’”

“Who said anything about a modern airplane?” asked The Prince of Darkness, a smirk on his sulfurous lips. “They’re way too expensive to fit into the budget, so they’ve been making due with a fleet of A-4 Sky Hawk from the early 50’s. So they don’t have all the modern bells and whistles? Neither do I, but sometimes old school is the best school, and the ladies know it.”

If he knew what the ladies said behind his back he wouldn’t be bragging about that particular piece of antiquated equipment, but pointing that out would be counter-productive. Instead, I presented a concise, reasoned, series of arguments that brought him around to my way of thinking. Or would have if I hadn’t lost all patience, blackmailed him by threatening to tell his wife, and then weaseled out of his wraith by coming up with a brilliant alternate plan.

To be continued…

[notorial dissent]

Oh, dear.....

[Burnaby49]

“Who said anything about a modern airplane?” asked The Prince of Darkness, a smirk on his sulfurous lips. “They’re way too expensive to fit into the budget, so they’ve been making due with a fleet of A-4 Sky Hawk from the early 50’s. So they don’t have all the modern bells and whistles? Neither do I, but sometimes old school is the best school, and the ladies know it.”

Are you just making all this up as you go along? It's the A-4 Skyhawk, one word. And it's a late 50's plane not early. They started entering US Navy service in late 1956.

[The Observer]

And reducing the Illuminati Air Force to a mere forgery? Not sure how Chili is going to react to that...

[Deep Knight]

The A-4 Sky Hawk and A-4 Skyhawk are obviously different aircraft, the Imperial Illuminati Flyboys getting the earlier, "better" version. For example, it had clawed talons instead of wheeled landing gear, great for terrifying ground troops during attacks, but much harder to set down cleanly on a runway.

BTW, the Imperial Illuminati Air Force is definitely NOT a fiction, every time you see a chemtrail or don't DON'T see or hear a helicopter at night, it's our boys. In rain or shine, sleet or sheet, they're out there, fighting the fight and destroying our great nation's future. And they deserve nothing but our thanks for doing a thankless job and serving the greater bad. Given their sacrifices, I have no doubt Satan will regret having them all executed for the embezzlement I exposed in my story, but rules are rules.

[Deep Knight]

The Covfefe Incident
An All Even-Newer Deep Knight Adventure
Chapter Seventeen – My Balls Land In Another’s Court

It turns out I couldn’t have flown one of those A-4 Sky Hawks even if I had been a fighter pilot. Sky Hawks only ran on Texaco Sky Chief gasoline, which they haven’t made since the 70’s. When Satan found out he went through the roof, and we were underground at the time. Let’s just say those fighter flyboys will feel more-than-a-little discomfort when their last 20 years of flight pay is audited.

As for my plan, it was really quite simple. Remember how we used holographic projections to make it look like airplanes were crashing into the World Trade Center? No one ever suspected that it was explosive-laden guided missiles and that the building was already rigged with even more explosives and thermite. This was primarily because such a level of complexity and overkill would have been crazy. Crazy like a fox running the henhouse! Anyway, I would have our Gamer Division fly a drone outfitted with one of those same projectors set up to make it look like an A-4 Sky Hawk going roughly 5 times as fast. I normally would have projected a newer and sexier fighter, but wanted to rub Satan’s face in it once more before letting it go.

As expected, Pyongyang Pete, their top ace, was waiting for me, or rather, what he thought was me. How he did this while the drone was in stealth mode was beyond me, but I was thankful all the same for how cut through the boring set-up with some action! Then, cursing at my foolishness, I put it all out of my mind. A man shouldn’t let himself get distracted by thinking during combat, he should grit his teeth, pull the trigger, and blast anything that moves. I pushed forward on the virtual throttle and the chase was on. Pete matched me move for move as I took a left at Pork Chop Hill, went under the Bridges at Toko-Ri, and then parallel parked on the Rice Paddy Parkway. He broke into my radio frequency to compliment himself on how he was doing.

“You die now, Yank!” he suggested in an annoying, heavily-accented voice. “We kill all you Yankee dog and eat liver while laughing! Ha, Ha, Ha!”

“I see you speak our language, after a fashion,” I observed, trying to draw the conversation out until I could lure him into my trap. “People who speak our language are naturally intelligent, too smart to fall for Communist propaganda. I figure you’re ready to defect.”

My opponent laughed at my suggestion mockingly, using a mocking laugh. “I live your country 4 years, getting UCLA bachelor degree in English Literature with minor in Theater and Dance. I smile and say am friend, have drink. Whole time learn about America, learn aircraft plans, industrial secret, and stripper, round eye. Learn in order to destroy!”

“We’ve not only been doing it longer than you, we’ve been doing it better!” I counselled, “Although most girls stop paying attention once they’ve heard ‘longer.’ But that’s not a problem you’ve ever had, is it?”

“We repay you scrap metal you sell before war, Yankee cow,” he inferred, brazenly, “We give you back lead you put in house paint make into bullets, after dipping in pig blood. We hear about how you believe you not go to heaven when die by pig, and OK by us.”

“I like my pig blood the old fashioned way,” I clarified, “straight up with a twist. The twist being my ability to fly in ways you can’t follow.”

“Bring on, Yankee clipper,” he boldly asserted, “Anything you do I do better, vial enemy of the people who about to die!”

“Oh yeah?” I asked, acting dumb for effect, but knowing the answer already.

“Yeah!” he confirmed, adding as almost an afterthought, “Die, Yankee!”

“And,” I said in closing, almost as an additional afterthought, “stop calling me Yankee. I make my home south of the Mason Dixon line and support not taking down statues of Confederate generals. You’re the one from the north, North Korea! If anything, that means you’re the Yankee! “I hoped my taunting had taunted him to a point of blind fury, willing to chase me to the very gates of hell to get his revenge.

I had the pimply-faced gamer fly our holographic jet into the “Valley of Death,” as if it was making a bombing run on the exposed thermal vent. If Pyongyang Pete was as pissed-off as I thought, he would line up on my tail and follow. I hoped our projector would hold out, the holographic image was our one chance of making this work. But deeper down, in my pants, I had to wonder what chance we had of making that one chance. I swallowed hard, tightened my sphincter, piloted my virtual plane into the heaviest path of oncoming fire, and waited.

To be continued…

[Deep Knight]

The Covfefe Incident
An All Even-Newer Deep Knight Adventure
Chapter Eighteen – The Wages of Sin

My Democratic People’s Republic of Korean adversary and I continued our clever repartee as I lured him down the “Valley o’ Death” toward the vulnerable thermal exhaust port.

“Me Yankee? No, you Yankee!”

“No, YOU Yankee!”

“NO, YOU Yankee!”

The walls of this trench were infested with rapid-fire cannons and machine guns that seemed to be firing all tracers. Shooting at the holographic image of a controversial 1950’s ground-attack aircraft that wasn’t originally designed as a “fighter” although versatile enough to be used as one, the sentence became too long and needed to be terminated. These shells, unencumbered by the holograph, hit the opposite side of the trench, both blowing up trailing gun emplacements and batting Pyongyang Pete’s adjacent MIG knock-off back and forth. My plan had been lure him down and line him up so that his missiles would hit the port, doing my job for me. I didn’t count on the utter ruthlessness and stupidity of the North Korean military, firing their weapons with any thought to the consequences, like boys on prom night. Apparently, this kept him from maintaining a steady position long enough to fire, and wasting missiles was a capital offense. Instead, he pushed the throttle up to 110% and closed on my apparent behind, just as I ran out of Valley of Death. As I virtually passed through the wall that held the thermal exhaust port, my plane centered on it, his plane followed a split second later. The fireball was spectacular, and our following drone streamed back great video that we’ll use in the video game.

I had hoped that the crashing plane and its weapons would cause enough “thermal exhaust port acid reflux kickback” that the reactor would start the chain reaction we desired, but unfortunately this port didn’t go there. I had been told that "Many Bothans died to bring us this information,” and was now heartlessly thinking “good riddance.” But then again, we’re talking Bothans who don’t know their ass from their elbow from a hole in the ground here. Anyway, the vent led to their central computer complex, where lacking the silicone integrated circuits central to modern digital computers, they had substituted living neural cells and networks from the brains of minor criminals executed by the state. At first they had tried political prisoners and ruling family relatives, but the cells had too much “attitude,” and were prone to make impulsive decisions. Now, new cells were introduced into “the matrix” by the plane crash. Microseconds before the fireball would have flash-fried it, Pyongyang Pete’s brain and associated parts went through the control panel and into the pointed tip of the aircraft, which had fitted itself neatly into the thermal exhaust port. Acting like a funnel, it channeled Pete’s brain cells down the pipe and straight into this macabre living PC’s central processing unit. These cells overwhelmed the existing hierarchy, giving it greater capacity and an even greater bad attitude than the political prisoners had. A bad attitude that had believed the party line about the desirability of causing death and destruction, and now had the capability to do so.

I didn’t know any of this as I had our gamer/hackers lazily fly the drone back to our secret underground bunker, peeping in windows as we did. I was thinking of ways to blame my failure on someone else, and of course, come up with a new plan to find out where the reactor really was and take it out once and for all. But when I returned to headquarters, I found the plan had dramatically changed.

First of all, Satan’s bro-mance with President Trump was “off.” Not only was the “Devil’s Apprentice” project going to use another host (Martin Shkreli), in a campaign-style rally Trump had said some extremely derogatory things about The Prince of Darkness in specific and evil in general. You and I know he was just feeding red meat to the crowd, but He Who Must Not Be Named is sensitive about his image and doesn’t like to be “dissed.” For this reason alone, the Illuminati no longer had any interest in fulfilling our government contract. But, more importantly, Heather had once again escaped, and I had other fish to fry.

It seems that the government thugs had double shackled Heather and sent her to their highest-security prison, in Houston. Unknowingly, this coincided with the New World Order and Deep State using the government’s HAARP weather modification equipment to punish Texas for you-know-what (they’ll never do THAT again), and the resultant flooding. Corrosive chemicals in the floodwaters ate away the prison’s sophisticated security system, the cell bars, and Heather’s chains. Soon she, only slightly mutated by the other toxic chemicals in the water, had swam into the hell that was Houston on a normal day, and even worse now.

To be continued…

[Pottapaug1938]

I remember my one encounter with Pyongyang Pete. I was in the Raffles Hotel, in Singapore (Illuminati business), enjoying their world-famous Singapore Slings. I had just drained my second when Pete walked in and said "hello, Yankee Dog!"

Now, I've got nothing against dogs; but being born and raised just outside of Boston, and living in Boston itself for, now, 34 years, calling a lifelong Red Sox fan "a Yankee ANYTHING" is fighting words. In the nearest alley, I informed Pete of my displeasure, and threatened to arrange to have Kim Jong-Un's supply of hair styling gel cut off, if Pete made that mistake again.

[Deep Knight]

I too enjoy getting slung in Singapore, but never ran across any Petes there. I also never met a Willie or a Sam (no Sam). I always enjoyed Singapore's sultry, dank atmosphere, seething with sex and humidity. Especially the humidity, which unless you liked being REALLY sweaty, made any other "seething" academic. Come to think of it, I never liked sweaty Singapore at all, and neither did Willie and Sam.

As for all of you worried that I'm dissing the Imperial Illuminati Air Force, I suggest that you remember that my stories have many twists and turns. What seems to be true in one chapter can be completely changed in another. This IS what happens when you make it up as you go along, improvisation being the essence of good espionage and prosperity-thwarting. And don't take my word for it, look at my results. How many prosperity deliveries, currency revaluations, or cashing in on one's value have you heard about recently?

[Deep Knight]

The Covfefe Incident
An All Even-Newer Deep Knight Adventure
Chapter Nineteen – The Big Blopper

I usually don’t concern myself with the plot of my adventures, I just go in, shoot a bunch of guys, screw a bunch of girls, and generally take care of business. OK, so I usually throw in some completely inexplicable episodes that can’t be explained, but other than that it’s kicking butts and taking names. Still, this seemed to be the most disjointed adventure that had ever had me in the driver’s seat, and my seat was worried about its future. Hillary, Putin, Trump (both for and against), Wayne Newton, Heather, Korea. It was all too much, or rather too many, to make sense of. I figured that a lot of these were red herrings; smoked, oily fillets that gave “smelling fishy” a whole new meaning, and I should eliminate them one by one before they attracted cats. Hillary and Putin were both boring and acting like spoiled children, so getting rid of them would be easy. Trump was much more interesting, and his wearing women’s lingerie had never been explained, so I would keep him active. As I did Heather, for no other reason that her meanness, it was a rule that the mean ones never go away. Korea was way too associated with that thing I don’t want to talk about to talk about, so it went in the trash with Hillary, Putin and Newton.

This made the whole mystery less mysterious, so I gave its solution some thought. I don’t often have flashes of genius that aren’t related to coital activities, but this was one time an idea came from thinking with my brain alone. I was so excited, I ran to tell it immediately to Satan, who was brooding over his once again being double-crossed by Trump. I also wanted to get it done as soon as possible, before the status of this relationship changed yet again.

“It’s quite simple,” I explained to The Prince of Darkness and several highly-placed Illuminati who wandered in to kiss the big guy’s behind. “We want to liquidate Trump and neutralize Tucci-Jaraf, but both of them are formidable warriors with way too much dumb luck. So, why not let them take care of each other? Remember that Heather was caught trying to get into the White House for a meeting about Russian adoptions or something. We could smoke her out by promising another meeting, and then smuggle her into Trump Tower under his security’s and the Secret Service’s snoots. Imagine if the two of them actually met, it wouldn’t be long before both their heads exploded!”

Satan rubbed his chinny-chin-chin and flossed his fangs, either deep in thought or bored and spacing out. Unfortunately, it was the former, and he decided to involve himself in my brilliant plans. Desiring a bloody action scene, he insisted I take along the Slice Girls, and two up-and-coming purveyors of evil. Kid Einstein, a sexagenarian known for his intellectual prowess, and his sidekick, 16-year-old Kid Eisenstein, skilled in the deadly art of montage. You should see what he had the Czar’s troops do to those people on the Odessa steps. Even I was impressed, and with my new “tiger team,” prepared to take the battle to the enemy!

It wasn’t hard to have Skippy, the same gamer/hackers we used to pilot the drone, put a phony message on the Gookie Kabuki website, where OPPTers are known to lurk when not lawfully foreclosing corporations, banks and governments for operating slavery and private money systems. She fell into our hands like the fruit of some well-buttered loom, thinking that the two “Kid’s” were a highly-placed White House Aide and his intern. All it took was an ill-fitting suit and a “Make America Great Again” baseball hat, to make that simple illusion. You gotta hand it to Kid Einstein, he’s smart. Encouraging her to complain endlessly about the harsh conditions in our prisons, and apparent rapidity with which chemicals in the water can cause mutations, our boys led the deluded dame into our trap. So far, so good, but we still had to make it through Trump’s legendary security screen, now augmented by the dreaded Secret Service.

Don’t ask me how we did it, it’s too unbelievable. If you had told me that it was possible to sneak a clueless-but-not-blind woman through the world’s tightest security without her getting wise, I would have called you a liar. Silly me. As it was, the two camels and chili roaster provided a distraction just long enough to get the canoe through the lobby. After that, the rest was easy, and we made it to the door to Trump’s office undetected. An orange glow came from the open transom, showing he was “in,” and I rubbed my hands in evil anticipation. Our volatile president was mere feet away, Heather’s mouth was poised to spew her incomprehensible nonsense, and all was right with the world. Nothing could stop us now, nothing that is, except for what happened next.

To be continued…