Open discussion forum about NESARA, Dove of Oneness, Patrick Bellringer, Truth Warrior and all the others spinning the NESARA tale. Includes the latest rumors about the Galacticans comings to Earth and Jennifer's blood ozonation machine.
Deep Knight wrote:Among the documents was a black and white photo of a cargo ship, the Ning Po, out of Shanghai. It was immediately suspicious, I mean, who in the world had access to black and white photographic paper?
SPECTRE, of course. What kind of secret agent are you?
My wife is from Rochester NY, and everyone in her family with the exception of her father, worked for Kodak or the Eastman family at one time or another. This gives family "doings" back in New York a strange flavor, for example, a couple of years ago a dinner conversation was about how AGFA was doing a brisk business in motion picture film again. My wife's latest thing has been a "Facebook challenge" for phone-taken black & white pictures, and all the "Roch-cha-cha girls" are owning it hands down.
As you see, my real life has a tendency to bleed into my fiction. As for what king of secret agent I am, why the best kind, of course.
During the 1980s and early 1990s, I used my Pentax SLR, plus some close-up lenses, to duplicate pictures relating to properties taken to make way for the Quabbin Reservoir (water supply for Greater Boston), using black and white film (of course, since ht eoriginals were in black and white). I had some 20 pages of negatives; and while not all of the pictures were printable (depth of field is an issue, with these lenses), I had a nice collection which I was going to print "someday".
A few years back, I decided that "someday" would probably never come; so I decided to go through the negatives and select the best ones for printing and/or digital imaging. I found out that making actual prints would be ridiculously expensive and would take a fair amount of time; so I stuck with simply having the images digitized. The negatives will go to a museum which collects items related to Quabbin, so that others may have prints made if they so wish. Although I have an enlarger and the equipment to make my own prints at home, the likelihood of my wife allowing me to monopolize the bathroom, or turn a room in the house into a darkroom, is virtually nil; so that's the end of that.
"We've been attacked by the intelligent, educated segment of the culture." -- Pastor Ray Mummert, Dover, PA, during an attempt to introduce creationism -- er, "intelligent design", into the Dover Public Schools
The Deep State Strikes Back
Another Two-Toed-Tongue-Tied Deep Knight Adventure
Chapter Seven – Puff, the Magic Dragon
I didn’t expect any results after only one night, but drug myself into work anyway, just in case. There I got to see Satan doing the same thing, only punching-in later, looking twice as beat up as the day after his mother arrived. As if in confirmation, twice as many irreplaceable mementoes of past victories had fallen off the shelves in my office as before, including a well-used spermatorrhoea ring. Satan had canceled all his appointments, and spent the day in his office with his daughters and their “good-for-nothing” husbands (his words). Except they didn’t include son-in-law George, our head of planning, who you’ve got to admit anyone would have to be crazy to listen to. Later in the afternoon, all of Hell was ablaze with gossip about how Gladys and some of the better-behaved of her daughters (none that I knew well) were off to Aspen for a long ski and shopping holiday. Satan must have been really desperate to shell out that kind of cash.
This gave Carte Blanche to Satan’s mother’s party-girl persona. First of all, she made Heckle and Hyde her constant companions, enticing them to join her in marathon pot-smoking sessions, complete with Indian sitar music and laser light shows. She even rigged up fittings on their gas masks so they could “get their weed on” without taking them off. In fact, she got one for herself. This drew them ever closer to the old battle axe, and while they were still basically loyal to me (the source of their steroids), they did any other little thing that she asked. This included “escorting” her pick of young men in chic nightspots, or should I say once-chic, as a single visit from her could make customers avoid a club like the plague. Shoplifting by day, cruising for beefcake at night, and pot smoking and snacking at all times in between, she was the terror of Georgetown and Dupont Circle.
Satan improved physically, but mentally he was a wreck. A wide-spectrum drug abuser himself (he’s been known to consume any substance at any time to get high, even things that have no such effect, like laxatives), I’m not quite sure why he wasn’t blowing grass with his mom. I suspect it’s either because she doesn’t want to share, or she’s so steamed at whatever’s been going on that they’re not talking. I knew good news from the war would make him happy, but our undercover agent had yet to report in. I still cobbled together a glowing report about the continued pressure we were applying from the FBI, CIA, NSA, Naval Intelligence, the Defense Intelligence Agency, the Defense Mapping Agency, the Senate Intelligence Committee, the House Intelligence Committee, the Congressional Budget Office, MI5, MI6, Interpol, FTD Florists, the Teamsters Union Pension Fund, Bennie and the Jets, Crips, Bloods, MS-13, the Screen Actors Guild, and the UNICEF Children’s Fund. I twisted the facts to look like we were winning, but this was based on the hope that dumb luck would see me through to victory once again, rather than anything that could be labeled “accurate” or “true.” You might call it “bullshit,” I call it “remaining optimistic.”
The next day, nothing, nor was there anything but nothing the day after that. The next day after that dawned like any other, and turned out to be the same too. Like the drip, drip, drip from a leaky sieve, day followed day, and disappointment walked through the Valley of the Shadow, down the Lazy River, then into the Delta of Venus, with disappointment.
Then, suddenly and without warning, news came from Betsy DeVos. Vouchers! She went to the President to announce a plan to promote school vouchers, not kill or kidnap him. The answer to this and our hearing nothing since she had gone undercover was obvious, they had killed her and replaced her with a clone, just in case. I was noticeably disappointed, but it soon passed and I went into my private bathroom to clean up. I blamed myself, thinking I should have had Velna shoot her instead of her cynical and heartless party comrades, who turned out to be more concerned with their own skins than basic loyalty and morality. I had to admit, these guys were good, and it was going to be hard to take them down.
But take them down we would, and with the help of an old ally. Say what you will about Hilary Clinton and the cackling noises she makes in bed, her homicidal skills and ferocity are unmatched. And she was loaded for bear now that that the scent of Trump’s blood was in the water. Some say she modeled her life after the book “Brave New World,” but that’s superficial at best. So what she advocates a dystopian world with laboratory-only births into assigned castes, daily intoxication with the drug Soma, and worship of Henry Ford? Purely coincidence, her real blueprint was the movie “The Bad Seed,” where Trump is Claude Daigle and Hillary is Rhoda coveting his penmanship medal, the presidency. The parallels are truly striking. Anyway, Satan had said something to her about impersonating Mike Pence using holographic projections, and inferred she could use this to step in as president if Trump was impeached. It was as vague as it sounds, but she still immediately joined our Deep State Tiger Team. I, for one, was glad to have her. Sometimes it takes someone that brutal and merciless to motivate others to similar heights, and I don’t mean through torture like Satan does to our accountants.
We marshalled our forces and read them the riot act. Hillary was particularly bad at this, inspiring the troops isn’t really her “thing.” But the electrodes we had implanted in their backsides did, and soon we had a bloodthirsty mob, bus tickets to Alabama in hand, ready for action. Action so intense and involved, that even though it was impossible to contain, it would have to wait for the next chapter.
The Deep State Strikes Back
Another Two-Toed-Tongue-Tied Deep Knight Adventure
Chapter Eight – The Depths of Depravity
Marijuana is a “gateway” drug. Users soon crave greater and greater “kicks,” and start experimenting with even-more-dangerous pills, powders and serums. I know all you “cats” out there smoking “tea” to get high enough to be able to make sense of this story don’t want to hear this, but it’s for your own good. Smoking “doobies” leads to a downward spiral of, crime, degradation, and death. While I embrace and make my living from these, trust me, in this case the ends don’t justify the means. “Pot heads” live in denial of this, using the mere fact that they don’t use more powerful drugs as so-called “evidence,” but we know better. And so in all likelihood did Satan’s mother, but knowing is not caring, and like many a country girl she was blinded by the bright lights of Washington.
Did I say “experiment” with stronger drugs? Heckle, Hyde and the hophead whose body they were guarding went in for full-scale research. It all started at a dance club, when after “inviting herself” into an exclusive back “party room,” she asked what the lines of white powder on the mirror were all about. A certain rich Hollywood producer in town for Congressional hearings into him abusing power in one of society’s few unacceptable ways, offered to show her, and they quickly became friends. I shouldn’t be surprised, she and Harvey both used the same technique when it came to uncooperative lovers. Satan’s mom took to cocaine like a pig takes to slop, and soon had modified her and the boy’s gas masks to deliver this new narcotic. Some might say that sounds excessive, and they would be right. One small side effect of this level of usage was staying awake for days on end with no sleep, the Peruvian marching powder having the same effect on the slumber as a shot of expresso coffee every 30 seconds. Basically, for the next 72 hours, the party went full tilt and never stopped.
Satan has a rather checkered history when it comes to this drug, having been on tour with The Stones in the 70’s and invited to all the right parties by “Régine” during the disco era. It got so bad he had to hire a “baby sitter” to stay with him 24/7 to keep him away from the stuff. I’m not saying that Satan is perfect, but will be the first to admit he’s been pretty good about staying clean over the last few years, especially considering his legendary lack of impulse control. Now, imagine his mother having kilos of the stuff delivered to his door by Peruvian peasants and their llamas. That’s not all, people who know Satan will have read between the lines already and suspected he was “fooling around” while his wife was out of town. This time it was a series of flings with some, um, notably young women he picked up at a small shopping mall in Alabama. It’s the sassy southern attitude and probable illegality that attracted him, I assume. I say “probable” because he was adamant that he hadn’t asked them their ages, although he did ask their mother’s permission. These were good church-going girls who had been taught the truth about drugs and abhorred them, which of course meant Satan had to do the same if he wanted to continue to date them. Strange that his being the source of all evil didn’t put them off, but then again, these girls didn’t have a lot of experience. Imagine, if you will, the torment in The Prince of Darkness’s soul, a battle of bad vs, bad, between Sex and Drugs with Rock ‘n Roll glad to be on the sidelines for once. We who knew Satan and had heard the rumors imagined it in great detail, and it made us smile. Nothing like a visit from mom over the holidays to put you back in touch with life’s basics.
The other-big-but-I-will-admit-less-interesting story was the war, and it raged in the halls of Congress and through the foggy bottoms of Foggy Bottom. One side would get the advantage, then the other, with our hopes and fears following in the same seesaw fashion. Tedious, when you think of it, especially right before Christmas with all the shopping, decorating, and baking filling your free time. Something was wrong, nobody in the Trump administration was skilled enough to continually counter my brilliant plans. Under the smell of sweat and blood I could almost detect a whiff of my old, old, old adversary SPECTRE, or should I say Blofeld. But he had died long, long, long ago, I had seen him splat on the rocks with my own eyes! But I was still wary, the photo of the ship had been black & white, and distrust was a friend that had more than once kept me alive. I decided to take counter measures, just in case. Soon, not a single white Persian cat purred anywhere near Washington DC. Perhaps coincidently, perhaps not, soon afterwards we started winning. Hillary was “in the zone,” that rare state where everything clicked and body counts were raised beyond what I would have considered possible. Revenge may be a dish best served cold, but this “dish” was serving it hot and nasty, and with unexpected frequency. The battle had truly been taken to the enemy, and the fear in the gaily-decorated White House was palpable.
Unfortunately, we got caught disseminating fake news, putting the wrong date on an e-mail to nail the final nail into the last coffin. We quickly had our mouthpiece “correct the mistake” so it would look like an honest and inconsequential error, but they were too smart for us. I had argued against such a bold move, since typos and the like are so rare, and pressed instead for something simpler like carpet bombing the White House (I had already written “For Betsy – mud in your eye” in chalk on one of the bombs), but Satan overruled this as being “too restrained.” Ever the hero, I pulled Satan’s nuts out of the fire by suggesting we pretend that it simply didn’t happen, and telling our troops the same to avoid any loss of team spirit. I mean, it would be a shame to have a setback now that Secretary Clinton was finally showing them how to collate, staple and file good guys like they do Uptown. And it worked! So what if we descend into insanity because both sides reject reality when it doesn’t suit them? Works for me!
Do evil right the first time and religiously keep it on schedule, and you’ll be surprised at how bad things start to go your way. I know it’s counter-intuitive, but there you are. We started to see a light at the end of a tunnel, the calm after the storm, and the papers finally got notarized and served. It may have not been perceptible to those slogging it out in the trenches, but we sitting and watching from a safe distance had a new hope! A hope that evil would triumph and the world would return back to the way it had been during the Dark Ages. Imagine there’s no country, it isn’t hard to do, nothing to kill or die for, and no religion too. Imagine life is more precious because it’s shorter, and can sold for higher prices as a commodity on the exchanges. You may say I’m a dreamer, but I’m not the only one. Maybe someday you’ll join us, and your soul will be eternally damned too. But enough proselytizing, get to bed all of you and none of that funny stuff when you get there, we have a big day tomorrow!
The Deep State Strikes Back
Another Two-Toed-Tongue-Tied Deep Knight Adventure
Chapter Nine – Back to the Basics
The most powerful drug known to man is also the rarest and hardest to get. Don’t it just figure? Correctly called “adrenochrome,” its devotees use the street names: “Whizzout,” “Dhoogz” or “DHGJ” (Dead Hitchhiker Gland Juice), and “Scooby Snaxx.” The “hitchhiker” moniker is from an urban myth, it’s actually harvested from the kids you used to see on milk cartons but were taken off when they got too numerous. I don’t know what’s sicker, the torture and murder of underage innocents that’s required, or the taste and consistency of the pizza at the places they do this, but it’s pretty horrible and if you don’t mind I’d rather not go into it. It's only available through Satanists, as Hunter S. Thompson correctly pointed out, and the beloved author tried to warn the world. “This stuff makes banana scrapings seem like ginger beer. You’ll go completely crazy if you take the right dose. Here.”
It shouldn’t require too much imagination to figure out how Satan’s mother came across it, we ship a lot of it to Hollywood where her friend Harvey is from, and Hell itself is infested with Satanists. Like they say, “kicks just keep gettin’ harder to find,” but in this case they were found easily. Some of this is conjecture, Heckle and Hyde having cut off all communications after swearing undying loyalty to Satan’s mom instead of me. This was both because they considered her a “sweet old lady who looked out for them and didn’t take advantage of their better nature like I did,” and because their use of adrenochrome made steroids no longer necessary. I told you it was powerful stuff.
At least the war against the forces of decency was going well. Spurred by Clinton’s “circle of death,” our troops were closing in on the Trump Administration’s last strongholds. Already the Supreme Court, Treasury Building, and Smithsonian were secured, and the momentum on all other fronts had remained ours for more than a single news cycle. We could almost taste the triumph that was at hand, especially Hillary, who was begging her lover Vladimir to join her for a final victory celebration. Something about a big military parade with tanks and missiles, dining to the sounds of her enemies’ prolonged death agonies, then champagne toasts drunk from their freshly-stripped skulls. You know, done with a style that would make the Russian dictator feel at home. He said he would try and make it, but I happen to know his nuts are in a bit of a vice because of the Olympic ban. The “exchange the athletes’ samples for clean ones through the wall” thing was brilliant, although I happen to know they got it from the old “Mission Impossible” TV show. But getting caught and thrown out was not as well thought of by his oligarch peers, and he was going to need to invent some seriously-good explanations to keep his swanky Kremlin address. Like they say, you don't miss your water until you see the whites of their eyes.
Hillary may have counted our chickens before the heat of battle hatched them, but I wasn’t taking any chances. Like all good commanders, I had held shock troops in reserve for use at the right time, and the right time was right now. Not a Brigade, Regiment, or even Lancer Formation, but (and I know this is hard to believe) a single man, Robert “The Miller” Mueller. Those of you would don’t recognize the name will still probably remember his signature WWF “Grind Them Bones” theme music. Just as the assault threatened to stall, and even Hillary was getting tired of ripping out throats, l sent "The Miller" into the fray. At the cost of his own life, he finally broke through and into their command bunker, capturing their field commander. Our really-impressed-troops brought back his body reverently to be used as part of the victory feast, and also the captured defensive coordinator. His face was scarred, so much so it almost looked like he had some Korean features, and I almost didn’t recognize him. But when he spoke in that distinctive, effeminate style, I knew I was once again face-to-face with SPECTRE Number 2, Ernst Stavro Blofeld.
“But I killed you years ago,” I objected, “I saw your body hit, bounce, and explode like a bag of red jelly. It was really gross, yet I just couldn’t take my eyes off of it.”
Blofeld smiled that creepy smile of his (although that was a little different too), and said, “Why so surprised, Mister Knight? Surely you realized that about half of what was necessary to clone me using the primitive technology available at the time could have been harvested from my remains? Added to what was left of our operative Goldfinger’s henchman Oddjob, there was more than enough to grow into the man you see in front of you now, Commander Blofeld-Oddjob, or as my loyal troops affectionately refer to me after shortening it by taking out the middle syllables, Blo…”
“Silence!” I screamed, “There’s no way you’re going to con me into typing that word into my story. I get enough grief over my bad language and puns as it is. Forget it.”
The-clone-formally-known-as-Blofeld (see how easy it is to avoid using “Commander Blojob?”) laughed at me, but I noticed he didn’t stoke his white Persian cat, because it was gone. I always suspected his bad-assed kitty was the brains behind his operation, so our pussy pogrom against them was strangely wise on my part. I motioned to Hillary, who had been both ruthless and pitiless in leading our cannon fodder to battle, letting her have the fun of administering the coup de grace. Mindful that if she left body parts scattered around cloning would again be possible (and with a tiny fraction of what was needed “back in the day”), she picked an active volcano in nearby Maryland, and in a dramatic replaying of a South Seas virgin sacrifice did a quick lava seer, broil and ash to our genetically-blended foe. The lady’s no fool and a true Illuminati asset, think of that the next time you start the chant to “lock her up.” As an added benefit, the volcano’s angry spirit was calmed and its imminent eruption delayed for at least a year, allowing the landless peasants to stay and work the rich horse farms at the mountain’s base for their cruel masters.
The Deep State Strikes Back
Another Two-Toed-Tongue-Tied Deep Knight Adventure
Chapter Ten – Double-Jointed and Shameless
I had never seen Satan in such bad shape, and we once went on 3-day quest to drink our way through Hamburg’s sleaziest bars wearing nothing but loincloths. Did I mention it was winter, and we didn’t leave one bar for another until we had literally drained their entire stock? Sometimes Satan pisses me off so much I forget the good times, but then I see him with circles around the bags under his bloodshot eyes, and it brings back memories. It also brings back a question that’s always bothered me; since his eyes look like glowing red coals, how can they look so bloodshot? Must have been one EPIC hangover.
But it wasn’t that, it was more than a week without sleep. With Gladys gone and his nerves shot, Satan needed someone to talk to, and that someone turned out to be me. The fool trusted me for some reason, wrongly assuming I would never tell his secrets, much less type them up and post them. His problems with his mother were much like I had imagined, only there were many more. Too many to list, but the most embarrassing involved his mother telling stories about catching him abusing himself when he was young, and phone calls on his (first) wedding night asking her anatomical questions. Drugs, the folly of her using them, of course, but also not sharing them, had been point-of-friction number one. Until the previous night that is, when Satan’s mother discovered that Heckle and Hyde no longer had a certain side effect of steroids. In fact, the adrenochrome had not only invigorated that part of their anatomy, it had enlarged it. Her latest fling with Harvey, the disgraced film producer from Hollywood, had ended in heartbreak when she discovered he preferred coupling with potted plants while she watched. I don’t care who you are, there’s no way that this isn’t both weird and an ineffective seduction technique. I never liked Harvey anyway, he looked too much like his namesake, the Púca rabbit (it’s the white fuzz on his chin). But back to the point, imagine when, a pharmaceutical-induced fire roaring within her, Satan’s mom discovered two answers to her needs, um, making a sudden appearance after she switched to X-rated adult cable while she and the boys were “dhoogzing.” He said her could distinctly hear her shout, “Eureka!”
I could almost imagine the torment the big guy went through listening to sounds a son should never have to hear his mother make, especially with such enthusiasm. Even though the guest room isn’t right next door to his, these sounds were still loud and distinct, and his mother is apparently the type who likes to express her appreciation in great detail, covering each specific point. He was strangely apologetic to me, telling me that he knew I had warned him not to assign Heckle and Hyde as bodyguards, and he should have listened. This point was true, I had actually said this knowing that the best way to get Satan to do something was tell him not to. Not only had it worked then, today he was blaming himself instead of me. Sweet.
I decided to do something to help. It was hard to bear my boss’s sad story, suppressing the urge to laugh for that long can literally hurt. But my amusement wasn’t getting me anywhere with my main goals, the triumph of evil and ascendancy of rudeness. So, knowing I would probably regret doing a good deed for Satan in the near future, I helped him out of his predicament by observing, “Um, you say she’s addicted to adrenochrome, which is only produced by Satanists? And you’re besides yourself because you don’t have a way to control her? Not that I’m saying you should threaten to withhold this drug from her to make her do what you want, that would be wrong, but it does get a man to thinking…”
I’m not surprised that Satan didn’t get this the first time, that’s pretty normal, but in his mentally-disheveled state it took me four times before he finally caught on. Then, he sprang into action, making a few phone calls and then limping out of his office to go downstairs to his penthouse. I can only imagine the scene once he got there, the tantrums, the crying, the whining, the chewing of Gladys’ prized white carpet. I assume his mother was upset too, her “jig being up,” exposing her own bad behaviors and soiled unmentionables. In the end she offered to retire to Hawaii, somewhere on a nice beach like Waikiki, where she had vacationed the month before. Satan countered by suggesting the island of Molokai where the leper colony is. Now run by the Nat’l Park Service, with the Deep State’s control over this agency he could have easily arranged it. They finally compromised on an out-of-the-way place on Maui, with Heckle and Hyde as “bodyguards,” and a steady supply of “dhoogz” as long as she behaved herself. She could take a couple of days to tie up loose ends and make that mandatory appearance in court, and as long as she didn’t argue with the judge and just paid the fine, it was off to paradise for Christmas.
I could finally focus on the final battle between the Deep State and the Trump Administration. With the death of their chief strategist, we had them on the run, and the war was almost finished except for the moaning. Hillary had done her job with perfection, leaving a trail of bodies that would make even the most hardened Clinton-hater stand up and nod in approval. When someone’s good, they’re good regardless of their politics, and true professionals who can see beyond petty squabbles will admit this. I knew that a final “shock and awe” moment would be the clincher, so I gave the OK for the too-long-delayed-by-political-correctness-and-micromanaging carpet bombing of the White House. Gracious in victory, there being plenty of credit to spread around, I offered Hillary a position as my co-pilot in the lead B-52, “Gorgeous Gladys” (it never hurts to pander to the boss’s wife). Don’t get me wrong, I’m not a good pilot, I can fly alright when I can steer the plane like a car, but I’ve never got the hang of those rudder pedals or the using-your-instruments-to-avoid-stalling part. But how hard could slinging a few bombs from a multi-engine airborne behemoth be? What was important was that I be there for the kill, thus maintaining my status as the world’s best-known undercover agent.
Hillary and I revved our B-52’s engines for the final time, listening to the sweet, smooth hum of their rotary pistons firing in sequence. “Rock Lobster” was blasting through the intercom to inspire our air crew, the Slice Girls, and our bomb bay was locked and loaded. But, instead of getting the “all clear,” we were told to stand down! A riot almost broke out on the field! Remember that the Slice Girls hadn’t had a chance to decapitate anyone this entire adventure, and were itching for action. I calmed the commotion with a stun grenade, and really, really steamed myself, went to the tower to see what was going on. There, I was told by a punchy Satan at the other end of the phone, that he had negotiated a truce with President Trump, and that their friendship was back on again! In fact, they were going golfing once Satan got a couple days of sleep.
I was beside myself with rage! Here, after centuries of struggle, we finally had the enemy right where we wanted him, our boot crushing his throat, and our commander in chief decides to back off? Sure, we had forced the US to do the same thing in Korea and Vietnam, but this was the New World Order we were talking about! We were supposed to be both smarter and more ruthless than that! Instead of victory, the Deep State would be a laughing stock, the butt of jokes from Moscow to Mogadishu. I admit it, Satan is both an asshole and idiot, but he had never erred like this before. Then I remembered, his lack of sleep, and kicked myself. I had tactfully left him alone to work out things with his mother in private, when I should have stayed to keep an eye on him and his cell phone. But Trump first Tweeted something flattering, then called to “apologize.” He ended up with some bullshit about how we were brothers for having shed blood together on the battlefield, and how both of us had done so impressively in this fight that if we got together, we would be invincible! Satan may be devious and evil, but he’s easily swayed when his vital signs are “on empty” because his @#$! family has just run his mind through the wringer. President Trump should be ashamed of taking advantage of the Prince of Darkness like that. Had it been anyone else I would suggest we sue him in court because of the big guy’s “diminished mental capacity,” but you know how unwilling Satan is to admit mistakes.
Whatever the case, our load was shot, our seed was spent, and dragging our tails in the dirt (that witch’s spell still hasn’t cleared up, I need to stop by the witchdoctor's and get some ointment), we returned home to the horrors of peace. But things weren’t finished yet, as events in the next chapter were soon to prove!
The Deep State Strikes Back
Another Two-Toed-Tongue-Tied Deep Knight Adventure
Chapter Eleven – Going Into Extra Innings
After the sickly-sweet smoke cleared, but still in the final analysis, little had actually changed. The administration’s better-known casualties were replaced with clones, and licking their wounds they started to rebuild their departments and institutions. We did the same, getting a general cost-savings because so many of our casualties were well-paid due to seniority and experience. This may sound cynical, but since this got me my first good yearly review in years (cost savings is HUGE right now), I ended up happier than I expected. Hillary was upset at first too, having to be taken out on a gurney to a waiting ambulance after collapsing, but I think in the end she ended up in the plus column herself. Not only did she get to kill hundreds, something everyone enjoys, but Vladimir, who had to cancel on her victory parade, was indebted to her because of it. This was even though that parade never happened. I suspect she had him do that thing she loves that real men don’t want to even try, thinking of the dire consequences to them if things don’t align exactly right. I would never go for something so dangerous that also had no margin for error. You know what I’m talking about, and if not, be glad. President Trump, on the other hand, finally got to win one. One he should have lost bigly, with him crawling to kiss my feet, begging for mercy with every on-you-knees-equivalent-of-a-step while I made light of his predicament. I hope he’s grateful for stupid Satan’s @#$! misguided generosity.
This leaves Satan’s mom. I should have known that this mole would rear her ugly head one last time before leaving, but I was blinded by the glare of glory. Had I not been so hot on the scent of Beltway blood… But sitting reading this at a safe distance, you could see we hadn’t seen the last of her, couldn’t you? Still, you didn’t warn me not to stray so far out of whacking distance. Thanks a lot. It turns out that during the time she was looking for sources of “dhoogz” around Illuminati Headquarters’ chemical labs, she ran across her granddaughter’s husband George (the one who’s VP of Planning), and he tripped over himself to give her a tour. One of those labs is where they’re working on a GMO-based age-reduction treatment, the subject gets lightly sprayed with a corn-oil-derived substance which reduces aging by dozens of years, perhaps more. Although purely experimental and not yet tested on humans, this sounded good to her at the time, and even better once she imagined how exile in Hawaii would be nicer if she could attract young surfer boys. She was running out of time, and being a few millennia old, shaving off “dozens of years” just wasn’t going to make it. So, in a bold move, she coerced her granddaughter into forcing George to give her access to the lab. Then she had him install a fire hose instead of the apparatus’ original misting sprayer, and leave her alone with this turbocharged fountain of youth. You see why none of us EVER listen to George?
Luckily, word about this rejuvenation had been leaked within the family due to George being both an idiot and a blabbermouth, and he was sent in to wake up his dead-to-the-world father-in-law. Satan stumbled into the lab mere seconds after Heckle and Hyde had turned on the “deluge of youth” and drained the entire supply of the oily experimental tonic onto the dowager demoness. The resulting chemical impregnation was enough to strip off literally hundreds of years of aging, but given where the lady started that just wasn’t enough. They said you had to stare to notice the difference, which no one was willing to do. But that still left the psychological minefield that was her uncovered body in all its raw glory. A still sleepy Satan gasped to see her standing in bright lights, totally naked, legs apart. She was not only leaving nothing to the imagination, her skin was lustrous and glistening in its golden coating of oil. This sight was another first for the Dark Lord, and it’s said he didn’t take the shock very well. But I didn’t get to see firsthand; he had come out of his catatonic state, covered her with a blanket and ushered her out by the time I got there. Satan might have been stupefied, but he had been together enough to call me in to take care of Heckle and Hyde. It seems that the force of the spray was so great that they got splashed enough to reduce their own ages, all the way back to infants! Deciding that taking care of these two now-baby bodyguards would keep his mother busy, Satan was anxious that they all be loaded on his private jet and in the air as soon as possible. But the cheerful, giggling babies had proven hard to catch. Not only were the formally-beefy boys plump, like the cherubs who infest Baroque paintings and are properly called “putti” in Italian, but the youth juice had lubed them up. I have many skills, and applied them all to the task. Dare I say it? Using great dexterity and skillful acrobatics where necessary, they soon were putti in my hands.
And what happened to me from the exposure to the leftover “youth juice” that made this pair of slick putti so slippery? Let’s just say Velna gave it a big thumbs up. Not that I was getting old or anything, but every so often the original equipment can use a spritz of god-knows-what dangerous substances to keep it shiny and bright. Although neither “shiny” nor “bright” were even close to how I would describe what actually happened. That, like (come to think of it) all of this, is none of your business. What is your business is what I’m passing off here as the truth, and the task of getting it out to the masses so they can sing my praises. Regardless of and despite who and what it might hurt, as long as that “who” or “what” isn’t “me.” Because, in the end, it’s family that’s really important, especially in this holiday season. And that goes tenfold for that most-important part of MY family, which of course is “me,” Deep Knight. The rest of you peasants can go screw.
The End
Postscript – Vladimir, who must have come out of his Olympic problems and conjectured perilous prurience with the former FLOTUS OK because he was humming cheerfully, wanted to apologize for being “too busy” to join in this adventure. In fact, he sent me this link to this video, the source of his hummed tune, and one he hopes you all enjoy. Merry Xmas!
The Deep State Strikes Back
Another Two-Toed-Tongue-Tied Deep Knight Adventure
Appendix – The Addendum Kind and Not the Part of the Intestines
Deep Knight was being arrested!
I know you’re stunned, and will be more-so given that it wasn’t for thwarting prosperity, not announcing NESARA, or even mass murder, but for something I was totally innocent of, or as close as I can come. I’m talking about what they used to call “a morals charge” back in the good old days.
Now, I’m the first to admit that in the past and recently my behavior has been, um, a bit excessive. But in numbers and entanglement only, I carefully write it so it’s never illegal. For example, not only do I have receptionists checking ID’s and collecting signed release forms; when they voluntarily stand in a line that long it’s kind of hard to claim I forced myself on them. I angrily confronted the arresting officers with this as they were putting on the handcuffs.
“You’ve never heard of collusion, er, enticement, punk?” sneered the detective, “That fancy conveyer belt that leads to your bed, for example. You knew what you were doing, and how to and how your industrial equipment and lengthy paperwork would lure them in, and then you pounced! I believe “pounced” is an apt description, given the amount of time you allotted to each.”
“Um, just how many women do you know who dream about getting loaded on a conveyor belt before an irrationally-brief encounter? Name two.” I countered, defiantly.
“It’s not about that anyway,” clarified the vindictive vice-cop, “it’s a child pornography rap. What you call in your code speech 'cheese pizza.' Specifically, the inclusion of naked cherubs or putti in your latest fiction. And you had them in the same room as some sort of sick perversion with a naked grandmother getting coated in olive oil.”
“GMO-corn,” I protested, “and it and the old bag’s nudity was necessary for the age-stripping process, not for any prurient reasons. Besides, I had nothing to do with her, or making Heckle and Hyde that way. I was called in to get them under control after they unintentionally reverted a bit too far back into childhood, which included getting them into some clothing. This should show you my intent was to clean up the scene of the crime, er, you know what I mean.”
“I don’t know, and I don’t care. You had naked children in Chapter 11, which shows your moral bankruptcy. Even though you didn’t go into any details, your readers have the sort of sick minds that could fill in those blanks with ease. Or so a jury of 12 of your peers will find once we railroad you through the legal system. Book ‘im Dano, on: prostitution, patronizing a prostitute, promoting prostitution, indecent exposure, lewd and lascivious behavior, sodomy, promoting sodomy for hire, patronizing a Person offering sodomy for hire, sexual battery, loitering for the purposes of solicitation, indecent liberties with a child, incest, adultery, promoting obscenity, promoting obscenity to minors, and displaying material harmful to minors. We’ll add additional charges later.” He laughed to himself as they frog-marched me to a waiting squad car.
Why didn’t I protest? Why didn’t I fight? Couldn’t the Slice girls have julienned these jokers in a heartbeat, and didn’t Velna appreciate opportunities to keep her assassin’s skills honed? Good questions. For one, it was almost Christmas. I’m not usually sentimental, but I had been looking for any excuse not to have to go to the Illuminati Holliday Party. I have to work with these guys, that doesn’t mean I want to socialize with them. And second, I had read ahead and already knew the readers were going to be invited to stay tuned for “The Trial of Deep Knight!” so I knew the jig was up and I should go with the flow. Luckily, I have one of America’s best criminal lawyers, Renfrew Dildo, JD of Dewey, Cheatham, and Howe. Dr. Dildo specializes in getting the guilty off Scott free, so actually being innocent might be a barrier to success, but I’m big on loyalty. Besides, what are the odds of the trial getting a judge who isn’t “one of us?” Please.
Read about Deep Knight’s next adventure, “The Trial of Deep Knight,” wherever provocative lingerie is sold!
"Luckily, I have one of America’s best criminal lawyers, Renfrew Dildo, JD of Dewey, Cheatham, and Howe. Dr. Dildo specializes in getting the guilty off Scott free...."
I remember Scott Free well. He and I, along with another Boy Scout (all three of us eventually became Eagle Scouts), staged a memorable all-night (and, of course, unsanctioned) expedition to the Girl Scout camp, three miles away, to indulge in ... um, anatomical exploration with three female contemporaries there. For as long as that camp remained open, campers talked about the night when loud howls could be heard from atop Sheridan Hill....
Last edited by Pottapaug1938 on Sat Dec 16, 2017 4:53 pm, edited 1 time in total.
"We've been attacked by the intelligent, educated segment of the culture." -- Pastor Ray Mummert, Dover, PA, during an attempt to introduce creationism -- er, "intelligent design", into the Dover Public Schools
The Trial of Deep Knight
Another Inconceivable Deep Knight Adventure
Chapter 0 – A Rude Prelude
“Hear ye, hear ye, hear ye! The court is now in session! Booyah, booyah, booyah! All rise for her honor, Judge Anna Von Reitz!”
These were the words that came to me during my most horrible nightmares, but for some reason were now assaulting my actual ears when I was awake. Is it a screwed-up world, or what? Words that taunted me, rubbing my face in the fact that I had trusted our justice system to be easily corrupted like back in the good old days. But now I was facing what is commonly known as common law instead of what generations of judges had colored-in as color of law! Ironically, after a career of forcing this very thing down real American’s throats, I was caught with my tits in its wringer. You see, given my past actions of almost non-stop illegality, actual justice doesn’t work out very well for me. But sore-winner Donald Trump had seen to it that my particular swamp was about to be drained in revenge for my astounding Deep State generalship in the recent defeat-snatched-from-the -jaws-of-victory debacle. Oh yeah, there was also the fact that all 3 of his wives had been models and almost certainly had slept with me (simple statistics, it’s not like I remember them all). Sleep-deprived Satan’s “negotiated” peace had lasted just long enough for the FBI to arrest me, load me into an airplane, and park my ass in Guantanamo Bay “Gitmo” Prison. What a bummer.
I had dreamed of a far-different trial, one presided over by a judge who was not only in Satan’s pocket, but smootching his hairy behind while he or she was down there. But I hadn’t counted on the level of ire a certain person losing in such a spectacular fashion would generate. I’m an old fashioned sort of Illuminatus, used to using genocide and scorched earth to prevent such problems, as they say “dead men tell no tales nor do they bite you in the butt.” But our current President had not only gotten his teeth into my behind, he was chewing on it with an intensity I found somewhat annoying. Those who really know me know the fearsome anger that dwells inside of my enticing exterior, and will have already guessed that I was “really put out.”
But I wasn’t through yet. Not only were my surprisingly-good friends the Reptilian Pindar Overlords ready to shape-shift to my aid, Velna was in the front row, hands fingering hidden weapons so deadly I only touch them after asking her permission first. Given hair triggers on some I can easily see her point, still it’s a hard lesson to learn when you naturally like being playful with your wife. Then there were the Slice Girls, dressed as a group of nuns, either as a disguise or because they got pulled from some kinky costume party, primed for swordplay and bloodletting. Add to that a propensity for my prologues to be filled with an gory action scene unrelated to anything else, and I figured I was sitting pretty. But that seat suddenly got a whole lot hotter, not to mention thornier.
“Bailiff, clear the courtroom!” announced Judge Anna upon setting herself behind the bench. This took both time and some “boosting,” as she mounted a stack of old phone books she had added to give her more height and gravitas. From her mood after this point I believe there could have also been a stick on top of this pile which, um, due to the intrusive nature of its insertion was causing some discomfort and annoyance, but this is only speculation. Still, it would explain a lot.
“Your honor,” announced the JAG prosecutor assigned to my military tribunal-style court martial trial thingy, “I must withdraw myself from this trial for not being sufficiently biased against the defendant. Instead, won’t you please give a big Gitmo hand, to America’s Attorney General, Jefferson Beauregard Sessions the Third!”
An obviously-partisan group of cheerleaders, too young to know the bridges they were burning, went wild as the darling of the Justice Department strode into the courtroom. His swagger was only matched by his attire, he had promoted himself to an actual General, awarding himself the first-ever rank of 6-stars, a Grand Attorney Field Marshall! By law and custom, this made him not only a JAG, but the biggest JAG in the country. Most people who had met him would agree. It could be worse, at least they hadn’t assigned Erasmus of America and made me listen to his drivel.
“I would like to thank y’all and introduce my assistant, hereditary heir to the presidency of the Confederate States of America and son of the inventor of the only Vatican-endorsed…
“I object!” I screamed, bounding to my feet, “I have taken a sacred oath in blood and oil, never to defile my readers’ eyes with what that idiot types ever again! Not to mention that letting him be part of this story would bolster his claims to be the #1 Royal Hapsburg lineage heir and/or heiress!” I winked Judge Anna’s way. “ It may not what you consider common law or even common sense, but you know in your heart it’s the right thing to do. Especially when you consider that you’re going to have to listen to him too.”
Judge Anna got a cross look on her obviously Hapsburg face, and made a cut-throat motion to the bailiff, who promptly gagged Erasmus. While he could still make gurgling noises, these were drowned out by the applause of an audience grateful they neither had to hear nor read them. I figured I had won at least a little sympathy from the jury, only there was none. Jury, I mean, not sympathy. No doubt a jury of my peers would be chosen as the very next step in this kangaroo court.
“There will be no jury in this case,” announced Judge Anna, “with a judgement of ‘guilty’ coming from me alone once we’ve completed proceedings. Which as far as I’m concerned can be now. I’d like to get some sunbathing in before I go back to Alaska, and maybe even have a little drinkie or two on the beach…”
I elbowed my useless lawyer, Renfrew Dildo, JD, who jumped up and screamed, “I object on the grounds that, um, er, you look really familiar, haven’t we met somewhere before?”
Judge Anna looked blankly at him (her normal state), but he went on anyway. “I’ve got it. It was at the little shop around the corner, Matuschek and Company, where I was a salesman and you worked on the loading dock? We went out a bunch of times, only you weren’t called Anna Von Reitz then… Bubbles Magoo or Von Magoo or something, right?”
“Never mind that,” said Judge Anna, softly and without her usual bite, “I did work there and your voice sounds kind of familiar, but I still can’t place your face…”
“Imagine me with hair and without plastic surgery!” requested my honey-voiced lawyer, “We were both poor and could only afford walks in the Park, quarts of Boone’s Farm Strawberry Hill, and quickies behind dumpsters in back alleys using discount condoms?’”
“Renfrew!” screamed Judge Anna, “You dirty no-good son of a bitch! You promised to marry me if I got into trouble, but instead left to get cigarettes and never came back!”
“Baby, I can explain!” sputtered my idiot lawyer, who I was rapidly realizing might be more of a liability than an asset. “They were out of my brand at the shop down the street, and when I finally found a place that had them I was hopelessly lost! I searched for days, crawling when I could no longer walk, dragging myself when I could no longer crawl, but never found my way back! Honest!”
“Guards! Tie and gag the defense’s lawyer and take him back to my chambers! We’ll recess for lunch early and convict the defendant at 22 hundred, er, 12 hundred and 2, er 2:00 this afternoon!”
The Trial of Deep Knight
Another Inconceivable Deep Knight Adventure
Chapter 1 –Love’s Tender Evisceration
I was kept in an unbelievably intricate and almost impossible to describe chamber surrounded by layer after layer of waiting death. Not only did it take the guards 15 minutes to activate or disarm all of these, 2 or 3 were usually killed in the process. You gotta admit that the crazy Alaskan judge lady was thorough. When I returned after recess, I found Dr. Dildo, my incompetent loudmouth lawyer, had been gagged and bound in a straight jacket. As he couldn’t talk to me, I didn’t know if this was revenge on Judge Anna’s part, or if the two of them had made up and started up where they had left off so many years earlier. But in the end it didn’t matter how his end was getting it, mine was in the hot seat.
The prosecution called their first witness. I naturally assumed it would be some expert to testify about age-reduction serum or how when overused it reduced grown men to infants but not their clothes. Instead it was some snooty French-Algerian official I didn’t recognize.
“Masseur, er, Monsieur Godemiché, do you recognize the defendant in this case, Mister Deep J. Knight sitting next to the gagged guy?” said the Attorney General in his sissy-boy southern accent.
“Qui,” responded the equally sissy Frenchman, “that ees to zaay, e-yesss! ‘Ee ees ze Profond Chevalier épouvantable, éleveur de super-modèles, how you zaay eet, ze Deep Knight!
“Thatz how y’all say it, alright,” confirmed the alert Alabamian, “and were you present at the funeral of his mother, Mrs. Knight?”
“Qui,” confirmed the lying Frenchie.
"Objection, Your Honor!” screamed as I bounded to my feet, “That question is outrageous, fallacious, salacious and way off base! My mother is still alive, in fact, she’s in the front row of these very proceedings!" Mom looked up from her knitting and waved shyly, she’s both naturally withdrawn and still wary of the spotlight from her many decades as a NWO assassin. She had been sitting next to Velna, who I noticed was not in court, probably a trip to the little girls room to take care of some lady thing, like witness intimidation.
"Incompetent, irrelevant, and immaterial, and not proper cross-examination!" responded the prosecutor, “It matters not one nit whether she’s alive or dead, what I’m getting at is that the defendant showed no grief sadness, despondency, depression, despair, wretchedness, gloom, melancholy, heartache or woe, when he and her friends got together to celebrate his own mother’s death! None of the feelings a real human being, deserving of the gift of life would have! Isn’t that correct?”
“Qu'est-ce que vous avez dit?” responded the confused-looking witness.
“I’ll take that as a ‘yes.’ Your witness.”
I started to rise, but Judge Anna and the choker chain stopped me. “Only the defendant’s attorney can question this witness, and his gag indicates he has no questions at this time. Next!”
Jeff Sessions paraded a slew of witnesses I had never seen before out to testify about my personal life and how it disgusted them. For example, that I had once been observed eating pickled herring. The one thing they didn’t bring up was my, um, rather excessive “burn rate” on supermodels in those carefree days before the invention of my marriage. As credulous as Judge Anna might be (if she believed my lawyer about respecting her in the morning, she would believe anything) that particular statistical summary crossed a line. Which was good, I’ve found it to be sad but true that many people harbor an irrational envy of people who have had more lovers than they have. And in my case that could apply to the sum total of some of our more-rural states. I’ve always believed that you shouldn’t judge a man until you’ve walked a mile in his shoes, although I would hardly call it “walking.” More like an endless series of short sprints.
The prosecution’s last witness introduced Heckle and Hyde’s birth certificates into evidence to bolster the “child pornography” portion of the charges. When it showed they were born in 1984, I realized that the prosecution had made a grievous error, and pounced on it. For some mysterious reason, the judge let me cross examine this witness, which was strange given earlier rulings, and I went of the jugular.
“Isn’t it true that the infants in question were in fact 33 years old at the time of this incident?” I blurted out, an accusing finger pointed at the document in question.
“That’s nonsense, just look at them. They can’t be any more than a year old!” responded the Cleveland County Clerk. He pointed to the prosecution’s table, where the twins sat in high chairs, no doubt being held as possible witnesses.
“But the document the prosecution itself just placed in evidence says the opposite! And if they’re 33 years old I can write about them being as naked as jaybirds and it’s not any sort of pornography, well, as long as their you-know-whats aren’t you-know-what!”
“I object and move the court reporter strike the last statement as being incompetent. Deep Knight is a ladies man and agent of evil, not an expert on calendars or people’s ages!”
“Your objection is sustained,” sneered Judge Anna, “In the future the defendant will avoid using dates to determine age, or have his pee-pee whacked with my gavel.”
“But it’s simple math!” I screamed, covering my package as best I could.
“Make one more rational argument and I’ll hold you in contempt of court, which in the Northern District of Nevada is punishable by death! It is my ruling that their ages are not to be determined using math or any other fake news legal trickery, but by common law alone! And now for the guilty verdict.”
“But doesn’t the defense get to call witnesses?” I asked naively, only to get a glaring stare from Judge Anna and the prosecution bench.
“We don’t coddle criminals in my court,” explained the judge, knives coming out of her eyes, “We deal in God’s Law as set down in my writings posted on the internet. Why delay the inevitable? You’re fate has been sealed, give up and we will mercifully give you a gruesome death by lengthy torture.”
“All the same, I’d like to put on my defense, and as my first witness call…”
Judge Anna slammed down her gavel, silencing me. “Court is recessed until 1 hundred tomorrow, er, 1 thousand, um, 10:00 o’clock in the morning.” She smiled as she slid off the bench, and almost purred when she said, “Enjoy a good night’s sleep, it will be your last!”
The Trial of Deep Knight
Another Inconceivable Deep Knight Adventure
Chapter 2 –Escape from Devil’s Island
I knew I didn’t stand a snowball’s chance in Mar a Lago of surviving Judge Anna’s court, and that my only hope lay in escape! Unfortunately, I only had a single night to do this, so lengthy schemes such as tunneling or smuggling in a personal jet pack were probably out. Which is really too bad since I had always wanted to lead a mass escape by tunnel ever since watching The Great Escape as a kid. It probably wouldn’t have been as fun with Islamic terrorists substituted for quirky Brits and their dry sense of humor anyway. No, in my situation, something more daring and a whole lot quicker was in order, a prison riot!
I considered using evening prayers as cover, but decided that in homage to the great prison movies I would do it during dinner. So, leading a chant of “I won’t eat this slop!” I hoped to incite a mob and used them as unwitting pawns for my benefit. Since the food was terrible anyway, some sort of Middle-Eastern chicken kabobs and rice thing, with a healthy raw vegetable salad, I figured it would be easy. I was wrong. First of all, since nobody knew me and I couldn’t speak anything but English, so nobody trusted or understood me. My riot turned into them hosing me down and putting me into solitary, a place I discovered was ideal for learning about the local snake population. I counted 21 species, but only 20 were poisonous. The 21st squeezed you to death.
The next morning, tired from my almost-constant hand-to-snake combat, I knew breakfast was my last chance. Luckily, the prison “mess” had picked that day to add egg McMuffins to the menu. Although the “patty” was unidentifiable, I spread the rumor it was pork, and soon there was a riot going on, everywhere but up in cell block number nine! The warden said, "Come out with your hands up in the air. You don't stop this riot you're all gonna get the chair." I expressed my disagreement with a kick to his groin, incapacitating him. Exchanging his clothes for mine, I gagged the warden with a sock and pushing him out into the exercise yard I yelled out in a falsetto voice, “You can’t shoot me, I’m invincible!” suspecting that the guards would mistake the warden for me and respond with a barrage of lead. They did.
Stabbing my confederates in the back, I figured that if I knifed enough of them from behind I could clear a path to freedom. Unfortunately, their falling bodies soon alerted their comrades as to what was happening, drawing unwelcome attention to me and my disguise. Thinking I was the hated warden, they moved to block my escape. Unfortunately, I had a canoe under my left arm (don’t ask), a goat under my right arm, and only a makeshift knife as a weapon. Putting the knife in my teeth and using my jaw, tongue and neck muscles to their utmost, I literally cut a door through a wall of human flesh. The canoe allowed me to skirt the crocodiles, and as for the goat, he was very good with mustard.
My early-morning escapade was working, and I had almost made it, getting past 4 of the 5 gates that led to freedom! But, blocking the last of these, I was confronted by Judge Roy Moore, riding a horse. Or, at least, he was astride a horse. Incensed with the Deep State’s interference in his recent election, he was out for blood! And, of course, there was that thing he has for Judge Anna and rumors of a wild weekend in Branson Missouri. Not that I’m one to judge. You would think in return he would have some empathy towards a man in my position, but you would be wrong. Instead, a sixth sense both allowed him to see dead people and told him something was wrong with a “Deep in warden’s clothing.” Pointing me out by using cattle prod applied “below my belt,” a bevy of Alabama State Police pinned me to the ground. I don't care who you are or what you've done, that was just mean. The jig was up, and after an exhaustive cavity search I was led through the still-smoldering base and prison to meet my doom!
Don’t get me wrong about Roy, I understand from friends that he used to be a nice guy. Someone you could hang out with to have a beer or pick up chicks in shopping malls. But the endless plastic surgeries changed him, making him both bitter and sweet. The price of vanity, and probably the reason he wasn't able to outbid his opponent when the NWO put the election up for bids on E-Bay. But there’s one more thing that really frosts my coconut. All over the internet idiots are trying to downplay the work it took to cheat in what was the state with the most-restrictive voter ID laws in the nation. Their “logic” goes something like this: a) It’s almost impossible to cheat in an Alabama election; so b) This makes it hard for people to believe cheating is going on; thus c) This disbelief makes it easier for people to cheat. I would go into the fallacies of this argument, but that would require intellectual effort. Instead, I suggest the people saying this try and fix an election in Alabama sometime, and then come back and tell me how easy it was. Trust me, they’ll be talking out of the other side of their digestive tract if and when that happens!
“But that doesn’t explain about Devil’s Island,” you might ask even though it’s not actually a question. Good for you, it shows that even though you’re struggling with grammar, at least you’re paying attention. To be bluntly honest, I never did figure this out. At one time I thought I would actually be transferred to Devil’s Island, and another was convinced it was simply used because it sounded cool. It probably had more to do with not trusting anywhere that had the word “Devil” in its name, figuring the big guy would have pull there. Which of course he does, but more because it’s a tourist destination (all the cruise ships put in at the port of Cayenne, “The Devil’s Island Experience” is a very popular excursion) than anything having to do with the name. Anyway, as events would soon confirm, those in power believing silly theories like this would soon do more for me than keep me out of French Guiana (a long, wet guiana done using a lot of tongue).
They cleaned me up and led me into the courtroom to meet my fate. Was this the end of Deep Knight? Would I be led out to a dual hanging/firing squad combination, as proscribed by scripture, or simply have my component atoms dissociated from each other in the fragmentation-beam? Or even worse, have Judge Anna leave me in legal limbo so she would use me as a sex toy to combat Alaska cabin fever? The grim look on her face, or should I say “grimmer than usual without a hint of pouting” look, made me fear the worst.
The Trial of Deep Knight
Another Inconceivable Deep Knight Adventure
Chapter 3 –The Magic Cube
The grim look on Judge Anna’s face wasn’t her glee at sentencing me to my doom, or even from bad gas, but because she was being forced to give up my prosecution and turn the trial over to the judge and jury from the adjacent courtroom! Instructions had come from the highest levels of the White House, resulting in Judge Anna’s reclassification as an unsanctioned ersatz judge! The buzz in the courtroom was that it was due to questions about her loyalty to the president and independence from the BAR (British Accursed Registry). She was replaced by a court that had been in the midst of trying this French guy named Meursault. He had allegedly killed some nameless Arab on the beach as a statement of the philosophy of the absurd and to popularize existentialism. The papers had called it “The Stranger” murder, and to be honest the jury welcomed being moved, the symbolism being dark and the characters brooding. From my reputation as a wicked wit and fecund felon alone, they knew they would have a lot more fun hanging out with me.
In the end justice was done, partly because I was innocent, and partly because Pindars Spade and Archer had shape-shifted to become the judge and jury foreman. With the system streamlined in this way I was quickly found innocent of all charges. I later found out that my beautiful and resourceful wife had given a huge bribe to Fox News to first broadcast the details of my lawyer, Dr. Dildo’s, relationship to Judge Anna, and then show the movie “The Untouchables.” She knew that our President was not only paranoid, he relied on things he saw on TV to give him inspiration. Right before the climatic ending of the movie, the judge and jury are compromised and at the last moment replaced, which of course inspired my recently-elected tormentor to do the same. I would say he was like putty in my wife’s hands, only I don’t want to get started on that again. I was just happy to have my named cleared.
“Ming is defeated! We owe everything to Flash,” I admitted to the crowd of reporters. “and I hope he’s acquitted on those indecent exposure charges. As for me, I’m going to Disneyland!” I was serious, although I didn’t add that it wasn’t for the fantasy atmosphere or rides, but to kill those annoying Disney Princesses. The Guantanameran press pressed me for more salacious details, but I was too disenchanted by the extra-legal justice system to go on. I also had that incredibly empty and hollow feeling you get then the trial your story is named after ends in the third or fourth chapter. Where would I go and what would I do without a trial to carry the story line forward? Sure, it could be a “metaphorical trial that had just began,” but in my mind that would be even worse. You would have all the boring suspense and tension, but none of the startling objections or gaveling the court to order. It would be like a submarine movie with no”Ah-OOG-gaah” klaxon calls to “Dive! Dive! Dive!” No, something was wrong here, and I was just the agent to find out what! Too bad I was tired and only wanted to go home and sleep in my own bed (with the conveyor belt turned off, of course).
But it was not to be, of course. As a backup plan, Velna and the Pindars had “dosed” the sugar cubes Judge Anna used to sweeten her coffee (which she liked like she liked her men - you fill in the details) with some of the brown acid left over from Woodstock (the gold standard when it comes to “bad trips”). The new judge, court clerk, and bailiff had taken a coffee break to refresh themselves before filing the paperwork that would attest to my acquittal, and I assume must have liked Guantanamo’s notoriously bad brew sweetened too. I only know that they later testified that the papers they were about to sign appeared to “shimmy around” under their pens. Their world soon became a surreal sequence of ghastly-but-comic hallucinations, with face painting and finding the answer to, “What color is oneness?” taking precedence over completing my paperwork. So even though I had been found not guilty by a sham jury of my peers, I was technically still on trial and a fugitive, a legal detail the enemies of the Deep State would leverage into a really annoying headache for me and my bail bondsman. But that was something I would worry about tomorrow, today I was living for today, which given the hour would soon be tomorrow, or perhaps yesterday.
The next day at work, Satan and “the boys” had posted my FBI 10 Most Wanted Poster on my office door, with a penned-in waxed mustache and goatee beard. It wasn’t until the actual FBI busted though the front door a little after noon that I realized the poster was real, and not something photoshopped as a joke. Thanks a lot for making that clear, guys. Luckily, people try to capture or kill me on a pretty regular basis, so I’m prepared at all times for a quick escape. This time it was disguised as a blind organ grinder and his trained monkey. Slipping down a drainpipe, I made sure I was blocks away from Illuminati Headquarters before discarding the disguise, freeing the monkey, and making my way through a series of tunnels to my most secure safe house. I had sent out a warning signal (I have this button I wear around my neck from one of those “I’ve fallen and I can’t get up” services) and Velna, Spade and Archer, and the Slice Girls soon joined me. In truth, the girls a bit miffed at not having killed anyone yet, and were itching for the inevitable assault. I know that might seem confusing given the care with which I choose my safe houses, but writing about them in my stories has this tendency to give them away, as does sending them in using the safe house cable. It just shows the high value I place on getting my side, er, the truth out as compared to the safety of my friends and family.
The confrontation didn’t come that night, or the next day, or the next night & day combo after that. I finally succumbed and turned on the TV Cable News (I avoid it to avoid you-know-who’s voice, the very sound of which makes evil-doers like myself cringe), only to find The President and his former closest advisor in a knock-down drag-out fight using insults and ludicrous threats of lawsuits. Usually I love it when they fight amongst themselves, but this didn’t feel right. It wasn’t just that I was jealous because that used to be the sort of thing he did to me before I became yesterday’s news, but the girls were really getting the homicidal equivalent of cabin fever, and I had to give them someone to kill. So I sent them to Alabama to take care of Roy Moore, his family, his horse, his friends, and any innocent bystanders who happened to be loitering around. Not that I hold a grudge or anything about that misunderstanding in Cuba, but if I let him disrespect me like that soon every punk on the street would be preventing me from breaking out of prison. And where would that leave me? A man in my favorite position can’t afford to look ridiculous, even if that position does look pretty silly if you’re not in the throes of lustful exuberance. You see, it was nothing personal, just business, so don’t judge me harshly like I was doing it for vengeance or just to let the girls blow off steam.
The girls had been watching old Julia Child cooking shows on cable, and had taken certain deboning and fileting demonstrations to heart, practicing on several sides of beef we keep in the freezer in back in case of a lengthy siege. I’m sure Judge Roy and his friends had a good time being used to put that practice to use. Sure, they might of preferred to die quickly and without tortuous agonies, but where’s the fun in that? It’s much more logical to save decapitation for last, when death is imminent anyway and the senses have been so numbed by unimaginable suffering it’s no longer a welcome relief but only the final horror, don’t you think?
All I had to do was wait in the safety of my lair. Even without the Slice Girls, I still had my wetwork-wise wife, Velna, and family friend Hillary Clinton with the “57 Varieties of Death” she had learned in the Orient. She and Velna had become quite chummy as of late, trading cookie recipes and festive homicidal techniques over the holidays. Even though her voice and especially her laugh could be annoying, I too was happy to have her as backup. The key to being a good killing machine was an enjoyment of your work, and nobody enjoyed snuffing out innocent life like Secretary Clinton. I had the feeling we wouldn’t have to wait long for her to have an opportunity to satiate that urge, but that’s what I thought a couple paragraphs ago and look what happened then. Sure, it was remotely possible that action was going to have to wait, wait for our opponents to overplay their hand, wait for reinforcements to be within minutes of returning from Alabama, and most of all wait for the next chapter, but what were the odds of that?
Is this the end of Deep Knight? Will he be able to withstand the coming storm? Will the President finally get that window fixed at the White House, or will he have to put up with that bad draft all winter? So many questions...
The Trial of Deep Knight
Another Inconceivable Deep Knight Adventure
Chapter 4 – A Gentleman Always Wears Braces
The Slice Girls might be enjoying balmy temperatures down south (I didn’t check the weather, but it’s always warm there, right?) but we were far from defenseless in frigid DC. For one, Hillary was staying in our guest room, with her arsenal of assault weapons and bump stocks spilling over into the aviary. In addition there was the Deep State. Not only were all 8,156 members of the SES (in public “Senior Executive Service,” but really “Small Edison Screw,” a standard light bulb base specification and frequent complaint from Mrs. Edison) at our beck and call, this was just the tip of the iceberg. All lower-rated government employees were also “ones of us,” with everyone from census takers to FDA meat inspectors doing our evil bidding. The Postal Service’s 329,000 letter carriers may move slowly when they’re walking up the drive with your prosperity delivery, but that’s to save energy for their daily live-fire commando training that keeps them in top shape for use as Deep State shock troops.
I would like to say that “we didn’t have to wait long until…” but we did have to wait, and the wait was long and hard. It seemed that the administration was having a 2018 strategy meeting at Camp David, and the same people that were attending it were slated to lead the assault on my luxury apartment. I don’t want to point fingers, but when I’m going to kill someone I don’t add insult to injury by making them wait around for it, my mother raised me better than that. As it was, we lounged around in our pajamas and watched the Sunday morning new shows, laughing at the clumsy ways the media tried to cover up our activities. I mean, who with even a single speck of common sense would believe this stuff?
We had just gotten a call from the Slice Girls, telling us they would finally be arriving in “5 minutes,” when the attack came. Hillary took out the first few people who tried to distract us by carrying white flags, making their heads explode like watermelons being picked off by shotguns as they migrate south in the fall. Very cool in slow motion (my phone has this option). It was only later that we realized the white flag stood for a request to “parlay” or talk without first killing the negotiator. I had never come across this unusual behavior before, but it sounded strange enough that I figured it just might work, and went along with it.
Velna and I walked across the lowered drawbridge in the moat/hallway in front of my apartment, where Jeff Sessions was waiting with a large executive order in one of these fancy restaurant menu folders. It turns out they weren’t there for us, but for our guest Hillary! The order was a simple one, the words “Lock Her Up!” above a huge Marks-A-Lot signature. Velna recoiled in horror. Not only was Hillary her friend, and the woman who had over the years saved us a lot of bother by killing large numbers of our enemies, it would be social poison if word got out that we had turned in our own guest without so much as a firefight! I can think of a dozen A-listers with open warrants who would avoid our parties like the plague. So, I pulled the pin on a fragmentation grenade and jammed it down a rather-startled Jeff Session’s pants, before retreating behind our heavily-armored front door. Velna had bet me that the Attorney General wouldn’t be able to both fish it out and get rid of it before it exploded, and as always she was right.
We had eaten up enough time with the negotiations that the Slice Girls should have already returned, but strangely they were nowhere to be seen. Not that the 3 of us couldn’t in all likelihood have taken care of this by ourselves, but on consideration I wondered if it was worth taking that chance. Not to mention that long, hard gunfights tended to be seriously fatiguing, and I just didn’t know if I was up for a workout this late on a lazy Sunday morning. Velna agreed in principle, had just returned with the chloroform, and I was rigging up another grenade near the door to use as a distraction so she could sneak up behind our houseguest, when…
The Administration’s forces attacked and the Slice Girls returned, at essentially the same time. A review of security camera footage was inconclusive and frankly immaterial, what mattered was the two groups close proximity and the girls’ skills with their already unsheathed swords. Some in the administration may give other reasons that their attack failed, but it all came down to the impossibility of sustaining an offensive when your head and limbs have been separated from your body. It turns out that the girls had stopped for a few cocktails at a local hot spot that didn’t see a need to be open before noon on Sunday, and were looking for an outlet for their rage when they happened upon our situation. Hillary was none the wiser about our plan to turn her over to her tormentors, being too upset at the executive order, which I grabbed as I was retreating and now gave to her as a souvenir. The former First Lady was a bit confused as to which treason she was supposed to be arrested for, but the administration’s intent was clear enough. A normal person might be scared, but this wasn’t Hillary’s first rodeo, and besides, the administration’s competence at assassinating people was starting to be questioned by even his most ardent supporters. You know things have gotten bad when you start to lose the base.
Hillary was all for an immediate counter attack using mail carriers and first class counter personnel, but I had a package coming from Amazon which I didn’t want delayed (we had been running low on C4 plastic explosive), so I nixed that idea. Instead, realizing it was Hillary’s behind on the chopping block, I challenged her to come up with a fiendish plan on her own. Had I known the bloodletting this would involve I would have thought twice before doing it anyway, but hindsight is always 20-20. At the time, annoyed as I was at people trying to kill me, I was in no mood for saving innocent lives or other half measures. This was war, and I was more than willing to let Hillary take any and all risks with her own life to win it. I don’t call that “being soft,” I call that “being smart.”
Hillary retreated to our Dojo, and after a ritual purification in pool of blood followed by a special occult ceremony, came up with her brilliant plan. Even Velna, once the Illuminati’s top assassin for 4 years running, was shocked at its inhuman brutality. Not that we considered not helping her even for a moment. There comes a time in everyone’s life when they’re just so fed up with the way things have been going they’re willing to try some pretty far-out things. For example, your aunt’s casserole at Thanksgiving, the one that kept you in the bathroom through Saturday. Sure, it was rough, but in the end it got the job done. A lesson Ms. Clinton was itching to teach Mr. Trump, and one all of us should learn not only right now but forwards and backwards, top and bottom, and crotch to crotch. Even if it turned out, as indeed it did, that circumstances beyond our control would conspire to only let us complete the first two, it would be enough. At least, in our fool’s tropical paradise, we thought it would. Even I, in retrospect, have to laugh at our naiveté.
The Trial of Deep Knight
Another Inconceivable Deep Knight Adventure
Chapter 5 – That’s Why the Lady Skis a Ramp
I believe I can speak for most of my readers, as I can speak for most of myself, and say how disgusted they are at the present administration’s response to my treasonous activities. First they arrest me, make me sit through a mock trial and prison break, acquit me, try to arrest me again, and then ignoring me try to arrest Hillary at my own house! I had never before seen this level of incompetence in attempting to stop the Illuminati. Not that it would have worked anyway, but their response was so disorganized that it showed a certain disrespect. It was as if they were saying that we didn’t actually matter in in today’s world, and stopping evil conspiracies like chemtrails and weather modification were low-priority matters that could be put on swamp-draining’s back burner.
As you know, a man in Satan’s position can’t allow anyone to make him look ridiculous, even though the horns, goat ears, cloven hooves and infantile behaviors sort do that by themselves. What was needed here was a powerful response, one that took into account their next move, and used it against them! If the administration held to their pattern, they would do something stupid next, but I didn’t trust them even that far. No, what would be best course was to booby-trap our safehouse and melt into the surrounding urban wilderness. There, by knowing what we didn’t know about their plans, we could use this lack of information to set a clever trap! The details aren’t important and would require more double negatives than I’m comfortable with to explain, just trust me when I tell you it was brilliant.
The ascending mushroom cloud where our safehouse had once stood told me I wouldn’t have to wait long to spring the trap. The Slice Girls surrounded our position, ready to both warn us and draw first blood when the enemy’s alpha-male scouts were drawn to their provocative attire. Anticipating this, the scouts were fed large doses of saltpeter with their breakfast to reduce their ardor to levels lower than the outside temperature. But anticipating that anticipation, we had substituted raw, uncut Viagra for their libido-blocking agent in midnight raids of their health plan’s nearest participating pharmacies. The results were horrifying as the easily-identified scouts found they couldn’t both hide their priapic protuberance and wield a weapon simultaneously. Luckily, for the sensibilities of my more-sensitive readers, the girls didn’t cut off their still-stiff stiffies, but left them intact. They felt the little tents in the torsos’ once-pants-but-now-cutoffs served as a mute warning to the troops who were to follow. I would have figured a line of severed heads on pikes and neatly-stacked piles of bloody limbs would be enough, but the girls had seen this fail just the week before, so I listened to their advice. This turned out not to an issue, the main Trumpist strike force waited until 5:00 PM for the scouts to return, and then went home. No approved overtime with the new budget restrictions, don’t cha know. I assume the police were never called, although their not finding the on-prominent-display body parts remains a mystery still. Velna thinks it’s because the display’s appearance was so disturbing those who saw it either blocked it out, or thought it was a location shoot for a Quentin Tarantino movie. Later, gnawing rats and natural decay took care of the remaining remains. I’m not convinced, for example someone could have taken them for some sick reason, there are a lot of weird people out there who don’t like provocative public art, but I suppose it could have happened Velna’s way.
Now that their guard was down it was time to counter attack with as much force as we could muster. Digging deep into the cesspool that was the New World Order, I decided to have one of our dupes publish a tell-all book that would seriously embarrass, if not bring down, the administration. That’s right, “The Sound and the Fury” by Washington insider William Faulkner. Centered on the Compson family, former Southern aristocrats who are struggling to deal with the dissolution of their family and its reputation, its main character, Benjy, was obviously based on our current President. Salacious excerpts were a cable news sensation, “Because no battle is ever won he said. They are not even fought. The field only reveals to man his own folly and despair, and victory is an illusion of philosophers and fools.” Strong stuff. This pot-boiler dominated the President’s tweets over the weekend. For example, “Yoknapatawpha Co., Miss. is a terrible place with a dying economy. Sad.” Obviously no one at the White House had the balls to tell him that talking about a book, and the wrong one at that, only made it more popular, not that Faulkner’s stupefying style wouldn’t have pulled ordinary readers in anyway.
Those of you who know my methods, and I’m not talking about speed mating, will have realized that the tell-all book wasn’t an end in itself, but the means to a another more-shapely end. And that end involved a strategy I had used successfully numerous times, waving a red flag and waiting for the bull to charge. But the bull never came. With horror I suddenly realized that the President was playing 4th dimensional mind chess while skillfully looking like he couldn’t handle anything more complicated that Candyland! His actions, which seemed so inane and ridiculous, were actually part of a strategy to “drain the swamp.” This might sound desirable in the abstract, but think of the environmental damage! It could destroy my people, Illuminati-Americans, turning us into an endangered species. Not to mention bring this story to a most-unsatisfactory conclusion. It all became clear, the reason those HAARP people were still in Alaska and the UN Peacekeepers hadn’t been asked to leave the tunnels that link Walmarts. We were all being played! Nothing was as it appeared! I realized an ill-planned attack would not be forthcoming, but something far worse would. And it would be something not best fought on the battlefield or bedroom, but the boardroom. I left the command post in the hands of my Imperial Illuminati Naval Aide, Major Mayhem, and sped to an emergency meeting of the Council of Twelve I had asked Satan to convene.
The topic of our very survival was important enough that all 15 members of the council showed up, including Hillary (there had been some disagreement about her level of compensation and getting stabbed in the back by the Council during the last election, but they had finally kissed and made up). I made my remarks brief and to the point. “A storm is coming; a storm The Deep State will not be able to weather. Whether we heed this warning or wither on the vine is a decision each of you needs to make after looking at this Power Point presentation of clever ‘memes’ from various truth-telling websites.”
It was all there in black and white, but mostly white. The reason our victories had seemed so easy, the seemingly stupid remarks in public, and the undecipherable tweets. It all pointed to only one thing, an intention to initiate impending Armageddon! Faster than you could say that 3 times fast, the Council voted for open warfare with me as military dictator and public face of the secret army. But as quickly as I was given absolute power, Satan took it away with a surprising veto! Once again he had thwarted our ability to crush forces of lawfulness and sanity. In this and other recent actions, such as the “truce” last December that ruined Christmas by bringing the troops home, it was almost as if he wanted to protect President Trump! I needed to have it out with the big guy, but before I could usher him off to someplace private, Hillary spoke up. What she said so amazed me and shocked Satan that it needs to wait until the next chapter to do it justice.
The Trial of Deep Knight
Another Inconceivable Deep Knight Adventure
Chapter 6 – The Wet and the Wild
“Gentlemen, I have to go powder my nose really bad, but for some strange reason the nearest lady’s room is 5 minutes away from the executive office area, so I’m going to speak quickly and then have to RUN!” Hillary did a little nervous dance, and then continued.
“I’ve never told any of you the real reason Donald is so obsessed with me and leads the chants suggesting I be locked up. You see, I once locked HIM up! It was when Bill and I were young, living from hand to mouth, and working the old badger game for extra cash. I had heard there was this millionaire with more money than sense, and that luring him home would be easy. There, while in flagrante delicto, Bill burst in accompanied by an old badger who just happened to have a tape recorder and camera. Pressed for money to keep the furry rodent quiet, the young braggart confessed that he was actually broke, having driven his fledgling company into the ground. Not only that, since he couldn’t pay he did the blackmail equivalent of countersuing, threatening to call the police and trying to get money from us! So, I pocketed the keys to the handcuffs that shacked him to our bed, and bolted the door. Negotiations went quickly when he started to hear nature’s call really loudly,” at this point Hillary grimaced, started to shuffle her feet, and pressed her knees tightly together, “Given his aversion to germs, nature gave him no choice but to agree to our greedy terms. He didn’t have a lot of cash, but what he had we took. Using it along with his insider tips on cattle futures, Bill and I made a killing, even after we paid off the badger, and our web of evil and circle of death was born.”
“We not only bested him, he didn’t quite make it to the bathroom after we cut him loose. Ever since, Trump’s desire to get even has consumed his every waking hour, unless of course he was golfing, tweeting, watching TV, addressing a campaign rally, or enjoying those delicious deserts at one of his property’s restaurants. As long as I am a member of the Illuminati’s ruling council, both we and our sister New World Order organizations will never be safe. I’m afraid I can best serve the cause of evil by resigning my post immediately.”
“Hillary,” I responded, “that’s the most selfless act I’ve ever heard of, or would be if I didn’t happen to know your use of the Clinton Foundation as your own personal piggy bank has put you at a greater risk than any of us. By distancing yourself from the Illuminati, you think you can avoid the storm and keep that river of money coming in. You’re listening to fear and greed talking, which is cool and usually works for me, but in this rare instance you need to listen to reason. Once the Deep State and our stooges in FBI leadership are gone, Trump will only be stronger and more able to take you to the cleaners when they lock you up.”
“The Clinton Foundation,” sputtered Satan, “but that’s a charity that’s been giving out hundreds of millions of dollars quietly around the world, and for example, helping stop the spread of AIDS.”
The room went silent at this suggestion, except of course for the faint sputtering sounds of people trying really hard not to laugh out loud. I took charge by cluing the Big Guy in to the way it really was.
“Yes, but every one of those AIDS patients is sending kickbacks back to the Clintons,” I explained. “Sure, they live in the most impoverished regions on earth, but that doesn’t mean they can’t be hit up for a scrawny chicken, bag of corn, or string of beads. These small ‘donations’ all add up, get converted to cash, wrapped in aluminum foil, and mailed to Chappaqua, New York. Over the years billions of dollars have been acquired, making Bill and Hillary many times richer than Donald Trump. If you want to know yet another reason for his hatred, you don’t need to look any further than that.”
Hillary got this sheepish look on her face and Satan responded with a big grin. Disgusted at his gloating, I turned to the Big Guy and aired his dirty laundry in public too. “But what all of us really need to know is why you’ve been protecting Donald Trump for the last year. Just a month ago the Deep State had him where we could have destroyed him, but it was called off at the last moment. There’s something going on behind the scenes, and if I know my peas and onions, it has to either do with sex or money, maybe both!”
Satan blushed and started to stammer, but it was Hillary who spoke up. “Trump’s real estate business has been laundering New World Order money for years! We heard Donald bragging about it when Obama bugged Trump tower. And then there’s the breach of promise lawsuit he just filed against Satan’s mom for that time she jumped on him and felt him up! Just ask He Who Must Not Be Named!”
Satan gave Hillary a really nasty look, but not having the energy to keep swimming against the current, came clean. “It’s all these budget cuts, I had to dip into our vast storehouse of ill-gotten goods to make ends meet. But all that money was tainted, some of it the result of crimes going back to ancient Egypt. There was no way I could have turned those bundles of bills over to the bank without some treasury agent with a list of serial numbers from a cold-case file using them to nail our butts.”
I was shocked. I never knew that The Big Guy had been sitting on a huge pile of loot for all these centuries and not spending it on our evil conspiracies. No doubt he had planned using it to fund his retirement or a slush fund to buy himself out of tight situations, the selfish bastard. Think of all those times when we had been this close to victory, lacking only a few billion dollars for bribes to seal the deal. It was almost enough to make one lose all faith in Satan. But now was not the time to point fingers, it was a time to kick butts.
Hillary was probably shocked too, but her now-crimson-red face showed that another item held higher priority. Reversing ancient council protocol, Satan let her use a wilted potted plant in the back that had been dying since that visit by Harvey Weinstein last week. Much relieved and noticeably calmer, Hillary returned and I made a startling observation.
“You know, things really do go better when we don’t keep secrets and lie to each other. We should try this again some time. But right now, I’d like someone to explain to me why we haven’t been laundering our money using the Clinton Foundation all along.”
Both Hillary and Satan looked shocked, but almost immediately that look turned to smiles and they turned to look at each other. Hillary spoke first, “I’d guess he’s charging you, what, thirty-some percent?”
From the way the sulfurous steam came out Satan’s ears, I knew it was much more than that. But all venting stopped when Hillary started talking about rates in the low twenties once you added rebates and incentives. The only issue was collateral for the bonding, but a sudden appearance of the Pindars took care of that problem. It seems that Spade and Archer, concerned about my welfare, had shape-shifted to look like two potted plants in the back of the room. From the perverse grin on Spade’s face, I could tell that he had been the wilted one used by Hillary mere minutes before. I’m not sure if he was pleased due to that, or because he had found a way around my strict proscription about describing that specific act in my adventures. Anyway, the Pindars were more than willing to put up the ammonia business as collateral, stories about our President having made it all the way to the Reptilian home world. It was frankly embarrassing to be the dark overlords of a planet that was a laughing stock in the rest of your evil empire.
Hands were shaken all around and lawyers put on drawing up the contracts. Everyone was smiling, but my grin was especially broad and radiant. The deal with the Clinton Foundation would finally untie the Illuminati’s hands, and allow me to get my sweet revenge. No more Satan playing mister nice guy by hobbling the Deep State, forcing half measures on us in fear that he might upset our victim. Now the tables would be turned, and it would be my turn at the tables.
The Trial of Deep Knight
Another Inconceivable Deep Knight Adventure
Chapter 7 – Revenge of the Myth
The gloves were off! And that wasn’t just an indication that the weather had finally warmed, it was a call to arms. Let me give just one or two examples. You all know about the most secret and closely held of our programs, that to eliminate most of the world’s people. This so-called “depopulation conspiracy theory” is actually a sensible genocide of the “useless eaters” who threaten the earth’s very survival – if by “survival” you mean “only Illuminati bloodlines survive.” You hear various numbers: Agenda 21’s 95% killed by 2030; Codex Alimentarius dropping the hammer on the food supply for all but those who have taken the mark; The Georgia Guidestones’ binding mandate of reducing the population to 500 million; and Memorandum 200’s 200 thousand (small, but it still exceeds the Jehovah Witnesses’ 144,000 by almost 39%). All good and forward-looking goals, except for those where too-low numbers would mean too small of a work force for basic needs. The military couldn’t step in because there wouldn’t be enough soldiers, and with too-few people society will grow unstable and eventually collapse.
You might ask, “Why would the Illuminati want to heavily depopulate the planet when doing so is provably harmful to the interests of the society it feeds off of and thus its own existence? Are you gluttons for punishment, or is this just part of the being evil thing?” Well you might, but don’t, it pisses us off. The workings of Satan’s mind are beyond the knowledge of man, if man knows what’s good for him, that is. And up to this point it’s made absolutely no difference anyway, I mean, have you been following the growth in the world’s population? Notice it going down precipitously as per our often-leaked plans? Woefully, it’s been going up, leading to the question, “Are we Illuminati that inept or what?”
The simple answer is “what.” Look at Fluoride, for example. As far back as the late 40’s society was warned it would cause skeletal and organ collapse in less than a decade, with deaths on a massive scale. That was when Satan’s son-in-law George ran the lab, and let’s just say he was no stranger to embellished test results. Or maybe it was those idiots who sourced the Fluoride and they used the wrong stuff, much like what happened with Chemtrails. That still chaps my hide. Our brave boys and dachshunds were flying around aimlessly spraying 24 hours a day, risking life and limb, for what? Years of effort and billions of dollars but still not a single mass die off! They say it’s because they couldn’t read a simple purchase order for 100 million tons of Yellow Fungal Mycotoxins, but what kind of idiot mistakes that for “Metanil yellow, monosodium salt?” A common dye, it turned out to do nothing more evil than give sheets hung outside that dingy peed-on look. HAARP produced killer weather? Not even a drop in the bucket. Ebola outbreak? Please. Nuclear meltdown? GMO Frankenfood? Executive Order 13603? The list of shame goes on and on. And it’s not all depopulation. Look at mind control, putting up all those things we tell people are cell phone towers but are really holes to throw money into. Have you seen any actual mind control recently? You know, people going into a stupor and doing our will? I wish. Instead, stories about the New World Order are growing at an exponential rate on the internet, which the most expensive of these programs has been using to broadcast mind control signals the developers refuse to admit don’t work! The list goes on and on.
I said earlier that we were inept, but should been more specific in saying that it wasn’t the rank and file, but the very highest levels of leadership. We have thousands of good people out there eager to participate in mass murder on a scale the world has never seen. With a new spirit of “no holds barred” they could express their inner homicidal maniacs and make rapid depopulation a byword for excellence. But that would have to wait, the gloves that really needed to be taken off first were those that kept the Deep State from destroying the parts of government not in thrall to The Evil One. And they needed to be taken off quickly, not like a stripper teasing an audience who had seen plenty of arms before. But like party girl had left the season’s best soirees years behind her, we waited but didn’t get the call.
I stormed out of the waiting room and back to the council chamber of the Council of 12. It seems the 15 representatives of the 13 ruling families were having a hard time with the numbers, giving Satan and opportunity to get cold feet. Something hard to do in Hell, especially when you have hooves, but leave it to the Big Guy to find a way. Rather than let my trip be wasted, I gave him the old Knute Rockne with both barrels.
“Sure it’s scary to take risks, we’re all more comfortable in our comfort zone, but sometimes it’s not only necessary but something you have to do. Like ‘do it again’ when some stripper you picked up won’t give you your clothes back ‘til you do. Sure you could run away, out the bathroom window and down the drainpipe, but that would leave you with your junk flapping in the wind. No, it’s time to bang the bimbo like they do uptown, pull on your pants, and make it to the front door before she’s able to do more than roll over. The Deep State needs to get its coup d'état back, and the time is now. Let’s go out and win one for the stripper!”
Satan took a deep breath, and with the Council of the Twelve cheering sycophantically behind him, gave the project a big clawed thumb’s up.
I sent word by encoded courier to our minion Diane, a Senator from California, who released the Fusion GPS testimony transcripts. Using their cover as a music publisher (full name “Fusion Gospel-Punk-Swing,” an unlistenable subgenre of music that has proven to be quite popular), they had commissioned a phony opposition research report which the Clinton campaign used to entice the Obama FBI to tap Trump Tower. When the only thing they found was that he called out for fast-food delivery an amazing number of times, their guy faked some “collusion” reports, then added the legitimate pee tape story to give it authenticity. But, turning the enemy’s strongest point against them (like I said, 4D mind chess), in this case making the existence of such a video look ridiculous, the whole things got discredited. But now, with the release of this testimony, we could twist the facts to make it look like the report was true, simply because it was! In this business, you assume that “everybody does it,” and I don’t mean “it” (which a surprising number of people in power don’t do) but get down in the mud and filth in order to win. And yes, I know there are politicians who like to do “it” in mud and filth, but I’m not talking about them either.
The report either hit like a bombshell, or was ignored entirely, depending on which news source you used. If it was your Uncle Bubba who re-tweeted things he saw and liked, you heard about the Uranium One sale instead (which really was treasonous, having given over 90% of America’s atomic bombs to Russia, all because Hillary liked how Vladimir looked with his shirt off). But, with time, even the supporter with the tightest bubble filter started hearing rumors about KGB moles, trolls, and assholes pretending to be Facebook Friends who passed on stories of Hillary bleaching phones and drowning people in Lake Huron in North Dakota. I’m not saying these aren’t true, only that nowhere in there was any hint of our recent fake news dump. So, we used subliminal suggestions in the mass media to embed out message in the public consciousness. Ford Fusion ads (slick, eh?), GPS navigation systems, and of course that terrible fusion music 24/7 on the radio (and I thought La La Land was bad). It was like taunting a volcano with a fresh virgin held just out of reach, sooner or later the hot lava would come oozing down on you.
But Satan liked it hot, or perhaps had just grown used to it given his abode, so we turned up the heat even hotter. We had reports that the President, while talking about receiving envoys from Africa, quite innocently referred to Swaziland-Hutu-Tanzania-Hottentot-Lesotho-Ethiopia, or SHTHLE, countries in the way most diplomats pronounce that acronym. We had our mouthpieces misleadingly-but-accurately publish that he had said, “Why are we having all these people from shithole countries come here?” knowing full well he was actually concerned that emissaries used to tropical climates should have to come to Washington given the recent weather, and no doubt volunteering to go there instead. Insulting any other continent would have been OK, but sub-Saharan Africa was particularly well-thought-of by his base, who had grown up watching Tarzan movies. Underhanded and unfair are how we roll.
Could you write your stuff in black? For people with less than perfect eyesight, your amusing fictions are simply too hard to read due to lack of contrast. Rest assured, your writings stand out from the crowd without the affectation.
