IntroChapter 1Chapter 2
Chapter 3Chapter 4
Chapter 5Chapter 6
Chapter 7Chapter 8
Chapter 9Chapter 10
Chapter 11Chapter 12
Chapter 13Chapter 14
Chapter 15Chapter 16
Chapter 17Chapter 18
Chapter 19Chapter 20
Chapter 21Chapter 22
Chapter 23Chapter 24
Chapter 25Chapter 26
Chapter 27Chapter 28
Chapter 29Chapter 30
Chapter 31Chapter 32
Chapter 33 • Chapter 34 •
• Chapter 35 • Chapter 36 •
Chapter 37 • Chapter 38 •

Appendix AAppendix B


Wicked Game – Introduction

That stained glass curtain that you’re hiding behind never let’s in the Sun.

This book is about a very, very strange life. I have no idea how unique it is. I suspect not as unique as one might think reading it.

What is perhaps unusual is for someone who has lived such a life to realize the truth after so many years of being deceived. That, and somehow living to tell the tale.

This is also a book about mass deception, about how powerful parties unknown affect current affairs and do so largely undetected. This topic alone covers many subtopics. It’s big.

Take the following examples: control of Hollywood and mainstream (and to a large extent not-so-mainstream) media; harassment technology and methods used on reporters, politicians, celebrities and regular folks; domestic assassinations that appear as suicides, accidents, non-political murders, mystery illnesses, or natural causes; the propagation of lies and creation of phony “truths” that erode not only the civil liberties of all citizens but also are destroying the foundation of society; false-flag terrorism; and more.

What you are going to read also details how a person can be an asset of an intelligence apparatus and not know it. I am a whistleblower, but unlike other whistleblowers I was never actually “inside.” This point becomes tragicomically convoluted as those who once used me appear to take the legal stance that I am a former spy on “burn notice.”

By the same token, we can all be the puppets of a political machine that now only cares about the machine. The machine has chosen what are really arbitrary issues designed to better motivate us to feed that machine, so that the people who run it can make money, build prestige, gain power in the process. This process more resembles professional wrestling than serious political discourse, but you’ve likely already noticed that, even when you’ve been drawn into it yourself. That’s okay, so have I. Our two major parties have a stranglehold on the political process and they are strangling it to death.

Though I am, or was, left of center politically, I urge conservative readers to give this story a chance. I might surprise you.

The main topic, call it what you will–behavioral modification, behavioral structuring, mind control, remote hypnosis, subliminal suggestions–is the very heart of the beast. It is the cornerstone of evil power, the impediment to freedom, free will (such as it is). It is the core of a heart made of stone.

Without this tool in the hand of the unscrupulous, we would find an easier time of things. We’d find that the “will of the people” could decide where, when and with whom wars can be conducted in our name, on our dime. We’d find a lot less corruption because those who engage in corruption would not be getting away with it so often. We’d find that we like each other a lot more, have more in common, less to dislike each other over. The main goal is to pit neighbor against neighbor and the true culprits sit back and laugh at the rest of us as we (they hope) tear each other apart and they prosper from it.

Conversely, if these technologies are allowed to continue to be used as they currently are, allowed to be improved in secret, we will never again see the likes of a democratic republic. We’ll all be doing only what someone else wants and little or nothing else. The words of Auldous Huxley:

There will be, in the next generation or so, a pharmacological method of making people love their servitude, and producing dictatorship without tears, so to speak, producing a kind of painless concentration camp for entire societies, so that people will in fact have their liberties taken away from them, but will rather enjoy it, because they will be distracted by propaganda or brainwashing, or brainwashing enhanced by pharmacological methods. And this seems to be the final revolution.

While there is something to that and I had one such an experience, what perhaps Huxley did not anticipate is the dispensing of pain at a distance and anonymously or that pharmacological effects might one day be produced electronically, at a distance and without the need for implants.

That’s slavery. And it needs to end.

Christopher Knall
Port Huron, Michigan, USA


Wicked Game – Chapter 1

“The Worst Spy in History”

It was the Summer of 1988 in Munich, the BRD (Bundes Republic Deutschland, known in the US as West Germany). That seems as good a place and time to begin as any.

I was working on my Bachelor of Arts (two actually) at a small school in Kentucky, Murray State University. I was double-majoring in speech communication and theater. I was also working on two minors, organizational communication and German language.

That last was due to my father’s part of the family having been somewhat mistaken about its origins. Though there was a German line on my paternal grandmother’s side (Zoeller, believed to be descended from the Hohenzollern–something I question, but who knows? Golfer Fuzzy is a distant cousin), Knall was actually not the name some forefather(s) of mine came over with on my paternal grandfather’s side. There was no ‘k’ and it was in fact ‘Nall.’

Strangely poetic (to me anyway), ‘knall’ in German is a sound effect equating with “boom” in English. I had thought it possible that whoever stood in line at Ellis Island or wherever they landed had been brain damaged, likely wounded in some war battle. Possibly, someone had either asked his name and, unable to answer for himself, another German had said “Knallkopf”, which approximately equates with dunderhead, which is just another word for idiot by way of having been struck by lightning or something like cannon-fire or having a hammer dropped on your head by a Teutonic god, I suppose. Alternately, it might have been a hand written sign around his neck attempting to explain the medical condition that was interpreted by Immigration as a last name.

But that was apparently all wrong. ‘Nall,’ on the other hand I was told is old Norse for ‘small harmless bear,’ which might refer to raccoon, a bear cub, both or some other extinct creature. That family line, my father’s father’s, was actually Scandinavian. Nalle still carries the same or similar meaning in Finnish and Swedish. In fact, Winnie the Pooh is known as Nalle Puh in some Scandinavian countries and nalle generally means playful, or teddy-, bear.

Which sort of sums it up. Explosive terrorist or mostly harmless scavenging rascal? That which kills randomly or a fluffy thing that mostly just eats? I know which I think fits.

In 1988 I had not yet been told the origin of the addition of the ‘k.’ I did know that my paternal grandfather, Philip Knall, had been a marine in World War I. I also knew he had joined a year or two too young to sign himself up.

What I did not know then was that his mother had refused to sign for him to join. Undaunted, he ran away to an aunt in another state and had her sign him up instead. In order to cover up the fact that he was in fact not an orphan as they told the USMC, they changed his name and added the ‘k’.

While I don’t know exactly what made him decide to join the military during a time of war, I have some thoughts about that. Grandpa Knall’s own father had gone to prison. Though there might have been multiple reasons for that, one of them was related to bigamy. Not only had he left my great grandmother Nall without divorcing her, he had married another woman. This second woman had been African American.

Being sixteen or so, I can imagine that news of that had been difficult to keep secret. The early twentieth century likely did not look kindly on multiracial couplings and I expect it was a source of contention for a teenager. High school had likely not been kind to Grandpa. Perhaps he wanted to prove something.

In 1988, I was at the time believing that I was visiting one country of genetic origin. On one of our days off, that is the US exchange students in the KIES program visiting Germany, another student and I found an out-of-the-way biergarten on a back street.

He (we’ll call him Mark) had had enough of the touristy bars and wanted to see where the locals watered themselves. We went out without his professor friend in tow on this trip. That was unusual because once it was discovered that I had a theater background as well, the three of us regularly spent time out and about together. His pal was a theater professor at another Kentucky school and my fellow exchange student Mark attended there and frequently played roles in their productions.

On this particular day, after deciding we wanted to find a bar where Germans drank—and not Americans, Brits and Canadians—we found one off the beaten path. (That last country being where we were told to say where we were from should we sense any hostility. The Germans were especially concerned with English and Irish soccer fans who they assumed all wanted to pillage and burn their businesses, homes and Peugots. However, Americans were also unpopular in places though it was never adequately explained why).

The two of us had wandered around the blocks near the park. When we found a mostly empty beer garden with an open air space, there were only three other people present: two men whom I assumed to be Saudis (they were in full desert dress like you’d see in a movie or whenever any POTUS is hosting members of the House of Saud) and a strange probably half-Spanish/half-Arab man wearing a black or dark brown 19th century style suit complete with a “Mark Twain” style black narrow ribbon tie and odd collared off-white or ivory shirt.

It was this last oddball who decided to join the two young Americans enjoying beers. He sat down and ordered an expresso. One of the Saudis looked on dispassionately but I sensed we were not welcome.

The man’s eyes were more than bloodshot. Though it could be time and memory blurring what I actually saw, I remember his eyes being more yellow and red than white around the milky brown irises.

The man’s language was just about as bizarre as his attire. He would start a sentence in English, switch to Spanish, and finish in what I assumed to be Arabic. This continued with no particular order of languages used. He tried his best to be charming. In an odd way, he was.

Not long into this strange conversation our third for afternoon drinks spilled a little of his coffee down his chin. My friend, who reminded me a bit of a young Pierce Brosnan (and he was probably aware of that) immediately handed the stranger a cloth napkin.

The man took this as an affront. Being somewhat snobbish, that’s very likely how my friend intended it as well. Despite probably being a little insane, a lot high on an opiate of some sort, and a problem with sticking to one language, this man still recognized an insult when he saw one.

He scooted back in his chair, the charm and friendly facade replaced by a deadly stare that only lasted a few seconds. He pulled a long chain from his pocket and dropped it on the table.

“Do you know what this is?”

My friend shrugged. Bowtie looked to the Saudis and started with, “They don’t know…” and ended with a laugh. Suddenly, he was able to stick to a single language even if he didn’t finish that sentence.

At this point I was of course thinking this fellow was some likely sort of criminal but almost certainly bluffing where violence was concerned. Lots of people seemed to court reputations that in reality they didn’t live up to, talked tough to cover up insecurities.

The man looked over to the Saudis in mock disbelief at the disrespect shown him by my companion. If the two desert men had a reaction it was well hidden behind what seemed to be cold disinterest.

He stared at my friend for a moment. What he held looked like one of those longish chains that a janitor might keep a ring of keys on or one that connected wallets to belts.

It was just about then that I noticed our table guest’s hands. His forefingers of both hands and the meat closest his pinkies had numerous scars and callouses. He had used the metal garrote from time to time after all. Maybe he wasn’t bluffing.

After a brief, tense moment, the man again regained his composure and the yellow-, brown- and black-toothed smile returned. He invited us to a private place he knew in the park for some beers. We declined, finished and paid, then departed.

Though I have read that the origin of the word assassin (hashishin, a legend about a cult of men who supposedly used opiates and killed people on orders) is untrue, I do think that man likely had killed before and used drugs. It’s no big secret that after some of the economic dips we had in the US that sexual favors for drugs started replacing money. Why not killing for drugs as well? That question would come up again for me twenty-one and a half years later.

Once we were a bit away from there I started laughing. My friend became angry at me for laughing at the situation, though I rather think he was releasing the adrenaline that was building during the encounter that had no where to go since we were walking coolly away as opposed to running.

“That’s why you’d never make a good spy!”

His words stung a bit. Serving my country in the clandestine service of some kind had been a career I had considered years before. I had once spoken to my mother’s brother about it. He, like dad’s dad had been a marine but that had been Vietnam instead of World War I. He said he had been approached after leaving the USMC. He had told me, “Those people don’t allow you to have relationships, family.” That had meant little to me at the time. I hadn’t understood what that meant nor what I’d have really been serving. More recent events have made both abundantly clear.

But I decided against pursuing such a career after Iran-Contra, the Arms-for-Hostages scandal, and several personal problems that all pointed to it being a bad idea in general. I had lost faith in Ronald Reagan and the Republican party due to those scandals and had a bad break up (with a girl).

A few years later, while in Germany, I was also awaiting the inevitable: divorce papers. My life was a mess and I had lost my sense of direction. I’d been brought up to abhor the “weakness” of, for example, Jimmy Carter. So without the GOP and the Democrats out of the question, I became distrustful of politicians and largely apolitical. And then there was the deep-down truth.

For one, I knew deep down that I was gay. I had lived a lie, even gotten married, just to please other people, what I imagined society wanted. I probably also had weaknesses of character that would have gotten me weeded out anyway. I came from a middle class (but decidedly lower middle class) family. That had meant hard work was necessary to excel in that world, somehow attending the right schools, making the right connections. I was, among other things, lazy, though not so much allergic to hard work when necessary. Perhaps a better way of putting it was that I lacked ambition.

Other circumstances seem to conspire so that none of that would happen. I had considered switching to law enforcement and changed my major to criminal justice. I was accused of stealing and didn’t like how I had been treated by some folks in that field. Thus, I had ended up studying fields involving the use of words.

Mark was of course correct. What kind of a spy laughs hysterically when he’s in danger? Maybe not the worst one in the world, but being a bit of a drama queen with a penchant for hyperbole can’t help.

It wouldn’t be the last time something like that would happen.

Several weeks later I was with a different group, this time people from my own school. We had finished visiting East Berlin and were on our way back to the West in order to wait at the bus station for our ride back to Munich.

For whatever reason, the guards separated me from my two fellow students. Then they took their time searching a car whose driver wanted to pass through the gates to the West, as I could see outside the window. I’d say about seven or eight minutes passed and they were really giving that car a thorough search including the mirrors underneath.

There was a camera, I think, in the hall I was in. I started acting a little suspicious. I did so quite intentionally but I don’t know, or didn’t, why I did it. I only know, or perhaps only knew, that I found it exceedingly humorous for some reason.

I stuck a still-wrapped condom in the radiator below the window, as if passing along some kind of microfilm or secret message. Shortly thereafter, they allowed the car to go and I was released to the next area and eventually out through Checkpoint Charlie.

As soon as I cleared the gate I started laughing again. When my fellow students asked why and I explained it to them, they correctly pointed out that that might have been a great way to wind up in an East German prison. They were horrified.

I still found it funny. I don’t–or didn’t–exactly know why.

This theater major would find himself at a Shakespeare festival in New Jersey a year later. I now believe it was likely some combination of experimentation, training, and search for talent for the Central Intelligence Agency.

Also, the Berlin Wall would come down. It was surreal watching that happen when, just the previous summer, I’d heard from German after German that it would never happen.

It only gets weirder from here.


Wicked Game – Appendix B

Appendix B – Correspondence

December 3, 2014


Senate Judiciary Subcommittee on the Constitution, Civil Rights, and Human Rights
c/o Senator Dick Durbin, presiding
711 Hart Senate Building [1]
Washington, DC 20510
via email:


Subject: Hearing to be held on 9 December 2014, State of Civil and Human Rights in the United States Statement of Record and Information for the Subcommittee



My name is Christopher Clark Knall. I currently reside in Michigan. For ten years, I worked in New York City as a real estate consultant from various offices in the 1251 Avenue of the Americas building. For reasons that are complicated and long in description, I was, beginning on or about December of 2009, subject to intense and prolonged psychological harassment that is best described in short as similar to that described in the Church/Tower Committee Hearings as Cointelpro. While I cannot, given the secretive and surreptitious nature of those who carry out such acts, state categorically that this was the work of the Federal Bureau of Investigation, I am convinced that someone at the Bureau is aware of my case and knows who is responsible.

My own best guess has been that the motivators in my case were individuals at the Central Intelligence Agency and perhaps partners at the National Security Agency. Further, though there is an issue regarding methods which the CIA especially is known to be charged with protecting, rather I think the real issue was that the CIA was spying on my clients and other tenants in the building in which I worked, likely utilizing surveillance technology on loan or borrowed from the NSA, for purposes beyond national security. In short, I believe individuals in these two agencies were performing insider trading and other financial shenanigans while using me as a patsy in the event that any of the parties that they were spying on realized it, they could pretend that I was the culprit and keep their true methods (and purposes) from being exposed.

I would also add that though there might be some on the surface some legitimate claim to protecting methods, these methods are almost certainly being employed by all sorts of groups for all sorts of purposes, whether they be corporate, private contractors, radical individuals within our political parties, even powerful individuals. Given that, it is highly unlikely that either agency would be sincere in citing this as motive. Rather, it seems much more like covering up criminal activity with other criminal activity. At the very best, the harassment activities are a violation of USC Title 18 Section 241, Conspiracy Against Rights:

If two or more persons conspire to injure, oppress, threaten, or intimidate any person in any State, Territory, Commonwealth, Possession, or District in the free exercise or enjoyment of any right or privilege secured to him by the Constitution or laws of the United States, or because of his having so exercised the same;…

They shall be fined under this title or imprisoned not more than ten years, or both; and if death results from the acts committed in violation of this section or if such acts include kidnapping or an attempt to kidnap, aggravated sexual abuse or an attempt to commit aggravated sexual abuse, or an attempt to kill, they shall be fined under this title or imprisoned for any term of years or for life, or both, or may be sentenced to death.

Rather, as you’ll see, the pattern of harassment was designed to accomplish several things at once: destroy me emotionally, psychologically, sociologically, and financially; to remove all hope and to provoke me to violent action, either against myself or others; and to make it seem as though I am suffering from mental illness, that all of this is a figment of an insane mind.

How I came to the conclusions as to who is likely responsible and why is a long, arduous tale, but let me mention that my clients and other tenants included foreign banks such as the Peoples’ Bank of China and even the Canadian Consulate General, but also domestic banks like JP Morgan Chase, brokerage firms, law firms, accounting firms, large real estate firms, and hedge funds, as well as entities like Gallup and the Medical News Network. As a consultant to the owner of the building as well, I would have had access to pretty much any location in the building. Let me assure you, however, that I never spied on my clients nor engaged in any similar activities. We took our work of managing construction projects, regulatorily required surveys and reporting, and other real estate related services quite seriously.

All of that is to explain why I found myself in the predicament in which I am in. The real next part of the scandal is what was done to my consequently. This list includes but is not limited to:

- The break-up of my longterm relationship with my partner of fourteen and a half years, who was a friend from college dating back twenty-five. Though I do not believe that this might be a hate crime, I am a gay man, that certainly played a role in what occurred. The Church Committee in the conclusions of their report, Book II: Intelligence Activities and the Rights of Americans, “C. Summary of the Main Problems,” wrote:

Groups and individuals have been harassed and disrupted because of their political views and their lifestyles. Investigations have been based upon vague standards whose breadth made excessive collection inevitable. Unsavory and vicious tactics have been employed–including anonymous attempts to break up marriages, break up meetings, ostracize persons from their professionals, and provoke target groups into rivalries that might result in deaths. Intelligence agencies have served the political and personal objectives of presidents and other high officials. While the agencies often committed excesses in response to pressure from high officials in the Executive branch and Congress, they also occasionally initiated improper activities on their own and then concealed them from officials whom they had a duty to inform.

As you might imagine, protecting insider trading and other financial strategies utilizing the cover of national security might be an easy motivator to such actions, and easy to cover up, especially given the atmosphere in a post-9/11 America.

- The strange illness and subsequent death of my dog, though this predates December 2009 by some months and was, I believe, an early “softening up” tactic.

- The even more disturbing death of my grandmother, Jean Miller-Fredrickson, of exactly the same symptoms as my dog the year previous, which is why the dog’s death is meaningful for purposes of this letter.

- Intense harassment in so many forms that it would be difficult to list them all. They include things like being audited by New York State, people coming up to me and saying bizarre things and snapping my picture, hacking of my online accounts, a pickpocketing of my iPhone which was later sold to someone who speaks Farsi, a mugging, thinly veiled death threats, car problems, financial problems often appearing out of nowhere, interference in personal relationships, and much, much more.

- Methods likely more akin to MK/Ultra, such as surreptitious drugging resulting in my inability to think clearly and to appear insane, the possibility of the use of one or more electronic harassment methods such as microwaves as described by the US Navy and US Army, and something akin to defense contractor Sierra Nevada Corporation’s MINERVA (Mob Excess Deterrent Using Silent Sound) and I don’t even know what else.


US Navy/Naval Medical Research Institute, “Bibliography of Reported Biological Phenomena {‘Effects’} and Clinical Manifestations Attributed to Microwave and Radio-Frequency Radiation,” Zorach R. Glaser, 4 October 1971.

One effect listed in this old document is making hair become brittle and easy to break. One morning in March of 2010, while living in Minneapolis, that is exactly what happened to me. If memory serves, I contacted the Department of Defense’s Inspector General and received a reply that “no laws were broken.” Of course, at the time, I had not heard of the possibility of microwaves being used for these purposes and assumed it was some sort of spray or substance placed in a shampoo bottle or similar.

Other effects include neurasthenia (a general “bad” feeling), depression, anxiety, dizziness, both sleepiness and insomnia, increased irritability, pain, thrombosis and hypertension, mistaken diagnoses for various skin diseases, and much more.

See also:

US Army, “Bioeffects of Selected Non-Lethal Weapons,” 17 February 1998:

There is, however, a growing perception that microwave irradiation and exposure to low frequency fields can be involved in a wide range of biological interactions. Some investigators are even beginning to describe similarities between microwave irradiation and drugs regarding their effects on biological systems. For example, some suggest that power density and specific absorption rate of microwave radiation may be thought of as analogous to the concentration of the injection solution and the dosage of drug administration, respectively. Clearly, the effects of microwaves on brain tissue, chemistry, and functions are complex and selective. Observations of body weight and behavior revealed that rats, exposed under certain conditions to microwaves, eat and drink less, have smaller body weight as a result of nonspecific stress mediated through the central nervous system and have decreased motor activity. It has been found that exposure of the animals to one modality of radiofrequency electromagnetic energy substantially decreases aggressive behavior during exposure. However, the opposite effects of microwaves, in increasing the mobility and aggression of animals, has also been shown for a different exposure modality.

I have also experienced some things similar to this. It is possible that what I refer to above as “drugging” was actually done via some other method such as the Army describes above.

Where microwave weapons are concerned, in the public record, we have deposed Honduran President Manuel Zelaya stating to Democracy Now:

ANJALI KAMAT: Can you describe what it’s been like inside the embassy? Can you describe the scene?

PRESIDENT MANUEL ZELAYA: [translated] Yes. What has occurred here is truly rude treatment for a democratically elected president. This is not how you treat a president who is fighting to reinstall democracy in his country. We have been repressed and limited to the embassy. Tear gas has been fired. Our electronic lines, our telephone lines have been cut. We’ve also been under attack from microwaves and the sound cannon, a long-range acoustic device.

AMY GOODMAN: What do you mean, acoustic device, a sound cannon?

PRESIDENT MANUEL ZELAYA: [translated] There are two kinds of unconventional weapons that have been used against us by the regime. There’s a high-frequency pitch that has been used against protesters. And another weapon that has been used against us is an electronic device that issues microwaves, which is very harmful for your health. It causes headaches.

From: Democracy Now!, “Ousted Honduran President Manuel Zelaya Speaks from the Brazilian Embassy in Tegucigalpa,” Amy Goodman, 5 October 2009.

And a doctor’s report for Guantanamo Bay detainee Shaker Aamer:

Mr. Aamer endorsed paranoid ideation. He believes there is a device implanted behind the wall of his cell that was originally accessed via the utility room and is used to introduce some type of beam into his cell:

“The are highly advanced in harming human beings. They have devices and devices have some way of beaming, maybe electromagnetism or some kind of radiation, but it can harm your body from a distance.

I have proof of the existence of the device in my cell. Three times I have heard a certain steady noise and have a fever, failure of my body to move, shaking, a feeling of being in a trance, joint pain, and an abnormal heartbeat. I can tell the concentration of the of the noise or the field. It varies in different places in my cell. I can move my head to different heights and feel the field strengthen and weaken.

I think the device is behind the toilet [of his current cell] because they always used to put me in a side cell but since March 2013 I’m always in the first or second cell. Most of the time they only do it [activate the device] when other detainees are far away. I believe that they isolate me so they can do it without the other detainees hearing it or feeling it, so it makes it seem like I’ve lost my mind.”

When asked if he believes the device is real or somehow the product of his mind, Mr. Aamer replied,

“It’s one of two things. Either the device is real or there’s a gimmick. They want me to think there’s a device in there and make me believe it by pretending to check the device at the same time they say to me, “You look terrible, are you feeling okay?”

From “Exhibit B – Dr. Emily A. Keram Report,” 2 February 2014, p. 12.

While I might perhaps prefer not to mention these latter activities due to how they might affect the Subcommittee’s opinion of my credibility, it is important that we also recall the hearings on human radiation experimentation in the House in March of 1993. There, we not only discovered extensive research utilizing radiation, that the CIA was less than forthcoming about it having redefined what they were asked to provide, but also used it mercilessly on young girls who were American citizens.

MK/Ultra was infamous for, for example, the administration of LSD to unwitting subjects, but less known are many of the other subprojects such as studies on African Americans, youth groups and psychology, and even voting decisions. These three topics can be found in the FOIA documents of subprojects 123, 127, and 103 respectively.

It is my belief that these methods, as they get utilized more and more for various purposes, are causing untold harm to our country. There are so many hotbeds of hostility now that these kinds of activities threaten to cause such sore spots to boil over into civil war if not locations where American police and military may be ordered to do harm to American citizens on American soil. This is not just about me and people like me, several of whom I have spoken to since my ordeal began. This is about the country’s well-being as a whole. I fear while we delay looking into these actions, perhaps best described as not only Cointelpro but MK/Ultra as well, a clock is ticking on our ability to prevent their horrific results.

I would like to come speak at the hearing, as I’m sure many others would. However, given my current financial state and the short notice, I only learned of the hearings this evening, I don’t see how that is possible. However, I hope that the Subcommittee will read what I have written and consider investigating and taking some action to prevent the next recurrence of the worst that the Vietnam and Watergate era had to offer.

Thank you for your time and attention. Please let me know if I can be of further assistance.

Sincerely and Respectfully,



Chris Knall
Port Huron, MI
[EMAIL] [2]

1 United States Senate/Judiciary Committee/Subcommittee on Constitution, Civil Rights and Human Rights, Senator Dick Durbin presiding, “The State of Civil and Human Rights in the United States,” 9 December 2014:

0B 01a Subcommittee State of Civil and Human Rights in the United States

2 Five typos in the letter were corrected as well as removal of address, phone number, etc. Otherwise this letter’s content is the same as the one submitted to the Subcommittee.


Wicked Game – Chapter 37

“You Bury Me — Part 1″

…a fall of 75 feet or more onto a hard surface…bridges will serve.
The CIA Assassination Manual, 1952

Recall that the FBI has been historically (among other things) the domestic arm of the intelligence community. When CIA has a problem on American soil, it is supposed to ask for FBI’s aid in dealing with it. Leaks, for example. Allegations of connections between the domestic (FBI turf) antiwar movement and foreign (CIA turf) terrorist organizations. We saw an example of the latter in the Twin Cities when FBI raided the homes of several protestors and there was a resulting protest in front of their building on Washington Avenue [1].


Whistleblower Coleen Rowley [2] showed up. A local NPR affiliate was there along with some some other news outlets.

I recognized a few faces from various political functions including a visit from then-DNC chairman Governor Tim Kaine at Rep. Keith Ellison’s office during the recent midterm elections where they had been protesting outside. Some of them were those later being investigated (as a reporter of my acquaintance once suggested about me, probably it was the Democrats who got those people into trouble. Really that party is 99% full of s— and enjoys their wars as much as the American Nazi Party, which some people still cling to referring to as the GOP).

Then there was “Magnus”, a war protestor who was assaulted by assailants unknown in a manner not unlike the unsolved attack on Dan Rather [3]. Magnus is not his real name, that was the name he took when he decided the fight for peace was not worth the personal pricetag attached and became sort of “religious” via yoga and spiritualism. I had seen Magnus at many of the events I attended.

This is the return of the old MHCHAOS program, where the Nixon administration sought proof and the aid of the intelligence community in linking the war protest movement to the USSR and/or the Chinese [4]. The hilarious theater that took place in the Nixon White House included CIA refusing the request for some time before agreeing even though they were already doing it before being asked to do so. Hoover refused and/or dragged his feet about doing what they asked so CIA had to handle it themselves on American soil was the logic. Their excuse: blaming the Huston Plan [5]. See the pattern? It’s always someone else’s fault, even when they act unilaterally. If caught, they just shift the lie to another narrative. The Huston Plan wasn’t actually implemented.

The result: not a single real connection found, CIA field personnel resentful of being asked to spy on Americans, and no accountability resulting in having to relive it today where the fear of radical fundamentalism has replaced the “Red Scare” and McCarthyism as excuses for dramatic displays of righteous anger, distractions from theft and graft, and excuses for infringements on civil rights that make the theft and graft easier to do. Hence the death of the middle class [6].

Previous to those raids, there were the problems surrounding the “RNC Eight” [7] and many other protestors arrested during the 2008 RNC convention in St. Paul. One such person was Dan. Dan had been arrested, then charges had been dropped, and he went to work for the Census. Not long after being there, he was fired because of his arrest at the RNC.

Keep in mind as you read how I met him and a few others that I believe he was being blackmailed / coerced by the FBI into being an informant. Of course, that’s not really the correct term. FBI was attempting to get people like Dan to entrap other people. This common practice [8] was what prompted one of my later visits to the FBI (that and seeking an end to the harassment).

An additional technical detail about these kinds of operations is that the operatives frequently add non-operatives to their group as cover. It adds color to the camouflage. This makes them seem more like what they are trying to pretend to be. One or two operatives add one or two people to their number who either know nothing about the goal of the operation or only know a very limited amount about it and have no idea that a government entity is involved. They may be given disinformation about the intended target so as to get them to go along with a particular plan of action that is either illegal, harmful to the target, or both. These “camouflage” dupes can also serve as patsies should there be charges filed. I’m reasonably certain that Chris, the latter addition to the group I met, fell into this category.

Here we have an organization (the FBI) being told who-knows-what about me by some other member(s) of the intel community who in turn attempts to engineer what they think they know about me into a series of traps. And it didn’t end there despite having avoided the traps and attempted to do the right thing.

What I’m detailing below is more akin to COINTELPRO [9] than anything else.

It is very late on June 11 or very early on 12, 2010 and I’ve gone out because of some impulse to do so.

The past two weeks have been among the strangest and toughest up to this point. Besides fighting multiple delusions planted there by repeated voice-to-skull sessions and PSYOPs, the parties responsible spent ten days straight “beating” me up via V2S to suggest something I know is not true. Though generally the sessions lasted only a hour and a half or so, you spend the rest of the day attempting to sleep off the emotional fatigue and rid your mind of what they’ve been filling it with. This is brainwashing, or “brainhacking” as I prefer to call it.

They tried and tried to get me to buy off on the lie that the entire situation with Peter Watts was an elaborate publicity stunt coordinated by Peter and Cory Doctorow. Although I knew and know there is no way this is the case, it didn’t help that something had been going on in Canada as well. Clear to me now, they had been pitting us all against each other, sewing distrust. My odd behavior, as I’ve noted previously, due to loss, harassment, drugging, electronic remote torture via voice-to-skull or similar technology based on the Frey effect frequently had me saying things that were directed at the “ghosts” responsible but via messages to other people I knew who likely could make no sense of it. There was no other outlet. Where were the people who did this? Hiding in the shadows. This frustrating fact is undoubtedly what contributed to events like the Navy Yard shooting [10].

They had started pushing that disinfo narrative, about it being a publicly stunt, almost two weeks previous to this evening in June. Every day, they pushed and pushed for me to contact authorities with that phony explanation.

That narrative could not explain why Kate Conway’s home was burnt to the ground and the seeming cause being three relatives of the primary Squidgate accuser much less the overabundance of cloak-and-dagger garbage I witnessed–and could not hide what it really was: an operation by one or more of our public and/or private intelligence organizations. Additionally, as a “convicted felon”, Peter Watts may not be able to enter the United States. That’s a large market he cannot visit. Some publicity stunt.

A probable assassination attempt in February of 2011 will prove that their explanation was a lie, that my instincts were correct. It was tiring fighting it off, though, and I knew I could not hold out forever. They pushed it day after day. There had to be a way to seem to satisfy the growingly impatient operatives pushing that deception and yet not actually doing what they were prompting me to do. In the meantime, before figuring out what that would be, I set arbitrary deadlines for myself, held out until I had examined a particular hypothesis a bit further a few days later. Once those were exhausted, it was time to try something else.

I started an argument via email with Peter. I waited to see what the reaction would be locally. It was obvious to me that there would be one. They wanted that or something like it too badly to leave it there.

Ten or fifteen minutes after the end of the email exchange I “heard” a voice say, via voice-to-skull: “Yeah! Retribution!” and my iPhone suffered an “error” and skipped from whatever was playing to a track that was, actually, called “Retribution” (a free download from the makers of the EVE Online MMORPG, a good scifi space opera game that also has some great music). I could practically feel their relief after having beat me up for ten days to do something along these lines and I had resisted for so long.

Note, I don’t know if that iPhone is “special” or not, just that it’s predecessor got pickpocketed the Wednesday night–actually early the Thursday morning–before the Squidgate trial. Probably any iPhone can be so hacked and remote controlled [11].

As noted in Chapter 3? [not written yet] there had been the crossing of a different bridge, one under construction, some time in May.

There was little surprise when three young men walked straight up to me and asked me to join them. Something had to happen and this was it. Walter was first to approach and speak. He was a thin 24 year old gay man. He immediately noted the button I wore on my jacket with a keen sense of irony, I HEART BRIDGES. Said irony resulted from the Blue Water Bridge connecting Port Huron to Sarnia where Peter Watts was arrested, the other two bridges I had just crossed weeks before and, I wasn’t aware of it yet, but the quote at top of this chapter from that book). It was obvious this was the “reply” to the provocations.

Now we were standing on yet another bridge. Just wait.

The three of them were all rather slight in build and I didn’t feel the least bit threatened physically as a result of that. Neither were they particularly hostile or seeming capable of violence.

Walter and I traded banter back and forth most of the evening. He seemed to be the ringleader, but I would discover later (at a party) that Dan was probably a lot smarter but not so outgoing and so let Walter do most of the talking.

Jared and Dan were dating. Jared was also 24, Dan was 20. They had played D&D and utilized at times The Book of Erotic Fantasy, an unofficial (sometimes contentious) supplement to spice the game up for amorous couples, lonely nerds, and dirty-minded teens. This was interesting because I had at one time been a player, a playtester, and friend of a few game designers. We had largely interacted on Yuku, a messageboard system that replaced EZBoard, which you may recall was hacked in 2005.

The gaming supplement had come up more than once on the boards.

Walter also took some glee in telling me about how he had been disappointed on his birthday when some people he expected did not show up. “Interestingly”, I had a similar experience in January of 2010 when we went to see Avatar and “we” wound up being several less than expected. But that might have been directed more towards Janus not showing up in Minneapolis and being told that via V2S during Juneteenth.

The first stop on this evening’s crazy train was climbing under the Stone Arch Bridge which was why they claimed to be there in the first place. (Again, recall that this is after I deliriously and recently crossed one under construction).

They asked me to join them in their climb. I declined. Walter even kissed me just before climbing over the railing and onto the ladder, but that didn’t change my mind. (In fact, the kiss was rather passionless…hard to find good help I suppose–though the vice versa can also be true). I told them I’d call 9-1-1 if they anyone fell. The bridge has a crawl space thingy on it’s belly. I also note that it’s Federal property I’m reasonably certain, given that not long after I’d be handed a map of the area by the National Park Service.

After they reemerged from under the bridge on the other end of the crawl space, they told me about the social services that Minnesota has to offer. I had no idea those things would be available to me, so that was welcome advice (that in retrospect, to a small degree, reminds me of Laurence Olivier’s creepy performance in Marathon Man when he gives Dustin Hoffman’s character advice just before drilling into his teeth with the full knowledge that he’s going to have him killed once he gets the answer he wants… “Enjoy it. It’s the last time people won’t expect anything from you,” to “Is it safe?”). What prompted the conversation was Walter asking me if I had health insurance and the resulting bizarre silence that followed my answer in the negative.

Walter also told me that if I saw flashlights and lanterns in the nearby flour mill ruins that that was their group hanging out at night. About a month after these events, they installed large spotlights in those ruins.

We headed off for beer and pizza. Along the way, I was told by the Jared that they used to pretend to be, but now they really are, ecoterrorists. I never found out precisely what it was they actually did that made them think they had struck some blow for Mother Nature. Attempting to ascertain that and curiosity about what was really in store as the evening wore on were the primary reasons for sticking around with them.

They opened manhole covers along the way, examining the contents. I asked Dan if he had these mapped as they indicated they had been doing this for some time. He just pointed to his head, that he was memorizing them.

Some of these tunnels contained cellphone equipment and lines. Others, something to do with the City’s heating system. Many were empty, blocked up mudholes, or inaccessible.

One stop (the 501 Bar which is located behind a gay bar called The Eagle) involved a brief meeting with their supposed “eco-terror cell leader”, a youngish woman with short blond hair whom I was told was a lesbian. She implied to Walter that I was not wanted around (which launched various double entebdres that could be construed as sex or murder in a deserted place like a cave…or a blocked up sewer tunnel). Though all this was already pushing the boundaries of credibility, the “young gay ecoterrorist group run by a lesbian” really pushed it over the top. Her inability to make eye contact with me coupled with the whole evening’s innuendo really poured on the tongue-in-cheek.

At the 501, I gave Dan my cell number and asked him to text me.


He did so. Jared was about to object, but stopped himself. Was he worried that whatever was going to happen that night might be traced back as a result of that text? I know that that was why I actually asked him to do it.

The first of several lids they opened were primarily in the back alleys of Downtown Minneapolis. When I suggested this activity might perk the interest of MPD, I was told that they were mostly concerned with other matters.

Along the way to more urban exploration, they added a fourth person. Chris, closer to 30, perhaps 6’1″, and with an athletic build. Now I had reason to consider that Walter’s innuendos might have some teeth and the reasons for finding a nice cave (natural or manmade tunnels) might be hazardous to my health. Chris worked at the famous music venue, First Avenue. At Pizza Luce, Chris suggested to Walter that he “practice” on their acquaintance Tim. It was another of those, “sex or death or something else?” triple-meanings. Walter had purposely and pointedly brought up adding Chris to me as if his arrival might mean something important. It was a double-entendre, sort of a Rorschach test: would I assume Walter’s mustache-twisting performance meant that they intended me harm? F—, yes. Whether they would actually follow through to do so was another question altogether.

As we progressed along and it got later, we wound up in more and more remote locations. I think one of them (based on the map I found later) was on the property of the Federal Reserve. It was a big blank wall in a parking lot next to our next destination: the railroad tracks leading from Downtown across the Mississippi, onto Nicolett Island, and into NE or SE Minneapolis.

While attempting to open the one in the parking lot, Walter was bent over sufficiently so I could see his underwear. They had Chinese writing on them, don’t know what brand that was. In retrospect, this pushed things well into the informant category, where they were looking for radicals of any sort: communists, eco-terrorists, whatever. Walter, for whatever reasons (self-loathing homo, blackmailed by FBI) was on a fishing expedition.

They hopped over the railing and down to the railroad tracks. Hilariously, Jared offered me a hand to help prevent me getting injured. That’s when I also noticed, despite the recent rainfall, there was a clean, dry bundle of hay sitting there to jump down safely onto. This didn’t occur to me at the time (remember, drugged silly) but became obvious later, this was a set stage.

On the way to the next lid, deciding better-safe-than-sorry would be a good policy, I picked up a torn beer can and folded it into a crude knife. If nothing else, I could scratch Chris’ face or nick an eyelid, and make a run for it if there was an attempt at burying yours truly alive.

Further on, I found a better weapon and “traded up” from the (D&D joke, has to happen) -1 cursed dagger to a +1 club. Like the hay, this thing was not wet nor covered with dirt like everything else laying around. This was a prop that had been placed after the rainfall.

It’s proper use is as a tool of some sort. I still haven’t found the proper name for it, but I think it’s a disposable thing used to drive railroad ties into the ground, contains a one-shot charge that is fired to force them down or enhance the force behind the swing of the hammer behind it.

One other strange thing is that the item was noisy, rattly. None of the others seemed to notice the noise, which should have been an indication that this was largely theater. They knew and expected me to pick it up, having placed it there for that purpose.

When we got to the last cover, Dan and Jared walked off. The narrative seemingly was that they couldn’t bare to watch what was going to happen next. Apparently Chris, at Walter’s command, was going to knock, throw, or otherwise force me into the hole to be left to bleed, drown, or otherwise be trapped unless and until I could escape.

As we stood there, the club up a sleeve ready to smack Chris’ skull if he made a move toward me, Walter and Chris gave each other a look that defies easy explanation in English (I told Holder and Mueller in an email that it was Mamihlapinatapei [11] in which I gave them grief about what happened that night). After a few seconds, they seemed to give up and we made our way across the railroad bridge. They slid down a hill under the Grain Belt Beer sign on Nicolett Island and I went home.


The narrative that came out from all of this, the new lie that they pushed, was that these people, Dan, Walter and Jared, were the associates of the news site friend of the Squidgate accused. Unfortunately, given my extremely confused state of mind at the time and the continued harassment that followed these events, that one stuck for a while. However, I decided that these young men were mostly fantasizing despite all that and were mostly harmless. It would take some time and additional information before the truth dawned on me.

1. Protests at FBI building over investigation of anti-war protesters accused of supporting “the enemy.”

See also Jimmy Carter saying that the definition given would have included him.

2. Colleen Rowley on 9/11 failures.

3. “What’s the frequency, Kenneth?” attack on Dan Rather.

4. MHCHAOS effort to tie protesters to foreign intelligence services.

5. History Commons, John Charles Huston:

Read it and compare to today.

6. HuffPo-Google search, “Death of the middle class”:

7. The RNC 8.

8. Aaronson, Trevor, “The Informants,” Mother Jones, Sept./Oct. 2011:

But shortly after 9/11, President George W. Bush called FBI Director Robert Mueller to Camp David. His message: never again. And so Mueller committed to turn the FBI into a counterintelligence organization rivaling Britain’s MI5 in its capacity for surveillance and clandestine activity. Federal law enforcement went from a focus on fighting crime to preventing crime; instead of accountants and lawyers cracking crime syndicates, the bureau would focus on Jack Bauer-style operators disrupting terror groups.

And the US became a kleptocracy over a false-flag attack run by NATO.

9. AARC Library, Church-Tower Hearings, “Vol. 6 – FEDERAL BUREAU OF INVESTIGATION”:

10. Jones, Alan, “42 days after ‘microwave mind control’ complaint, Alexis kills 12″, Washington Times Communities, 18 September 2013:

Microwave mind-control technology was developed over fifty years ago during the height of the Cold War. Among the established effects of microwave weapons are sleep deprivation, a symptom that NBC News reports Alexis received treatment for.

McDuffee, Allen, “Conspiracy Theories Abound After Navy Yard Shooting,” WIRED, 20 September 2013:

Compare the articles above with FBI’s “ELF was a Navy underwater thing that went nowhere” narrative.

Note also, again, witnesses claiming multiple shooters and FBI insisting there was only Alexis. They will trot psychologists out to say this is a common misperception among witnesses to violence and try to explain it away. It is also what you would do if you had one person made unstable and therefore unreliable when you wanted a lot of bloodshed to fulfill your agenda in a false-flag attack; have additional shooters to ensure casualties. This is classic Operation GLADIO.

11. Article on government’s ability to take over various iPhone functions remotely which I need to find again (seen on Twitter in recent weeks, probably from an #anon account).

12. Matador Network, 20 Awesomely Untranslatable Words from Around the World, 2010:

Note that the title for this chapter and the next two also came from that article. There’s nothing like pointing out that the Arabic language contains a phrase for “I can’t bear to live without you” to make at least a thinking person wonder where the media’s image of the mad, angry bomber comes from.


Wicked Game – Appendix A

“The Star Killers”

Note again the organized stalking phenomenon I’ve mentioned previously. Ordinary people harassed, abused, remote tortured with electronic nonlethal weapons, and (I believe) often drugged silly. Contacting their representatives and law enforcement does no good whatsoever.

Note also what happened to Randy and Evi Quaid [1] around 2006, after the Bush administration’s huge expansion of private intelligence contractors, most of whom work for the National Security Agency. After starring in a pro-gay movie (Brokeback Mountain) with an actor who later died. Statistically speaking, I think Quaid has a point. The paranoia about who did what (producers of a broadway show poisoning Piven, for example) fits in snugly with what happens to OSEH victims. They suddenly start accusing their neighbors, the cable guy and mailman, news anchors and disk jockeys, of conspiring against them. This is due to having some brain functions interfered with, either with something like MEDUSA or surreptitiously administered substance, or both [2].

This is the ultimate character assassination weapon, because you cannot recover from the perception that you have been mentally ill. It’s a stigma that will stay with those people (and me) for the rest of their lives barring the exposure of a very, very corrupt defense, security and intelligence sector. People have a natural fear of being around such people, which in turn causes isolation, which further in turn exacerbates the problem.

Similarly, the financial troubles are also very, very similar to what happens to OSEH victims. They cannot hold down jobs any longer (Quaid was banned for life from the Actor’s Equity Union for berating a fellow actor, recall Jonathan Rhys-Meyers and the airport incident) and wind up misspending money trying to find implants, e-proofing their rooms and homes (the more sophisticated version of tinfoil hats), or running away (as I sort of tried in 2012 in Canada, see chapter ## NOTE: NOT WRITTEN YET).

The former, ordinary citizens, served as training for the later attacks on celebrities. As noted previously, sometimes there was another motive and sometimes there wasn’t. Training the field operatives for use against media figures would seem a logical conclusion to make.

Also recall the Department of Defense’s strong-arming of Hollywood pictures in a time where the economy is pushing producers to save money where they can and to appease powerful special interests (such as the defense industry) just as mainstream news does [3].

Recall also George Clooney’s “worst year of his life” during and after the filming of Syriana, a film that showed that average American interests and those of big business do not always align and in fact can run quite counter at times.

This is how some agency or agencies within the US intelligence community, possibly with the aid of subcontractors, tried to get me to target writer Neil Gaiman.

First of all, though I had decided that “Janus” was likely the son of Canadian science fiction writer Peter Watts, there was also a lesser idea that maybe he belonged to Mr. Gaiman instead. The idea of contacting him regarding Peter’s plight was no more my idea than contributing to Wikileaks had been on January 29, 2010. It seemed a good idea at the time, but had been planted there via voice-to-skull, silent sound, or a similar kind of technology.

During my final months in Brooklyn, I on occasion stopped at an independent bookstore along my way to Prospect Park to jog. While browsing there on February 9, 2010, a cat started following me around. This was the eventual photo that I took:


In case you can’t see it, look at what the cat decided to stand on. It climbed up there all on its own:


(Coraline was a good book, by the way.)

Now read this again:

14. One or two subprojects on each of the following:
“Blood Grouping” research, controlling the activity of animals, energy storage and transfer in organic systems; and stimulus and response in biological systems [4].

And this:

In 1961, a top CIA scientist reported in an internal memo that “the feasibility of remote control of activities in several species of animals has been demonstrated…Special investigations and evaluations will be conducted toward the application of selected elements of these techniques to man,” according to “The CIA and the Search for the Manchurian Candidate,” a 1979 book by former State Department intelligence officer John Marks [5].

Both show that controlling the activities of animals was studied since the late 1950s or earlier. We’re over five decades since then. Yes, there was some open discussion of MKULTRA as used on human beings being halted, but can you imagine for one second that they really stopped trying to figure out how to control animals?

Again, the idea to go to Minneapolis was my partner’s idea and that of co-workers at Top Secret America contractor Google. As if that weren’t strange enough, Mr. Gaiman has a son who worked, or maybe still does work, there as well though not in New York.

By the way, I found a photo of the junior Gaiman years ago just to put my mind at ease with regards to “Janus.” Not even close.

As there had been with others including Peter Watts, there was some attempts at perverting things that Gaiman said on his blog or on Twitter (and once even in the commentary of Neverwhere on DVD). That had not helped.

But having already figured out that I had been mislead on Janus once, I wasn’t about to completely allow that to happen again. Once I arrived in Minneapolis, I did eventually (largely out of boredom) hit a pub that Gaiman had said he frequented. I suppose some of the strangeness that happened on Twitter made me wonder if he at least had some idea what had happened. (Understand, I’d never heard of voice-to-skull, organized stalking, any of that at that point).

I should also note that the first FBI agent I met with (over the informants, see chapter ## NOTE: NOT WRITTEN YET) was surprised when I said that moving to Minneapolis had been my ex’s idea from people who worked at Google. Had he already known who I was, or was it Google that surprised him?

Gaiman of course wasn’t there so I just enjoyed a few beers. When the time came to fill out a slip for a drawing they were having later, I filled it out “Canis Lupin.” I had been thinking of writing a series of werewolf short stories. This was where my current Twitter handle would come from (@kanyslupin) and I made it up I think on the spot. I had used Canis Doofus once prior. This was also a play on a character from Peter Watts’ Rifters trilogy, Ken Lubin. Lubin also, along with Jason Bourne and the general way I was feeling, contributed to “Ken”, a main character in the novella I wrote, Learning to Fly.

I also went to a comic book store where Neil had signed a bunch of items. I did not wind up buying anything (money was very tight) but I enjoyed seeing the store and hearing from the clerk how Neil had been so gracious signing items. (He said that when he was done with the third large stack and they brought him the fourth one, he sort of quietly sighed and continued signing away).

There was one other thing. I had actually acquired a taste for Marmite. I had bought some in Brooklyn at a Brit specialty pub and wound up liking it. (The secret is to spread much less than you think you need on a piece of bread).

When my local store didn’t have any, I sent Neil Gaiman a webmail via his site sounding as if it were coming from a person struggling with lycanthropy and only Marmite could cure them.

As it turned out, I was harassed (as already noted with the additional use of something like testosterone to make me more aggressive and hairy) about the werewolf thing. I wrote about a small piece of it to Peter Watts and soon after there were various werewolf “jokes” coming my way be strangers at 3am outside and seemingly the folks living upstairs.

While I did know that the believed origin of werewolf legends from the middle ages was due to a bread infection called ergot, I did not know that ergot was the source for LSD-25. LSD-25 had been created by CIA and synthesized by the Sandoz Corporation (now Novartis) until CIA asked for such a large quantity that Sandoz refused and CIA had to find a different manufacturer [6].

What does that mean? I don’t really know. I can tell you that like most people I’d prefer to just be living my life and ignoring the ills of the world as much as possible. That is not an option for me though, and there are a half dozen reasons why. This book serves to list them. This is not fun for me. It’s a living hell. Believe what you like.

This is how I think these things are done. Similar to utilizing multiple shooters for assassination, the use of a drugged and mind addled puppet to harass celebrities that some special business interest or some stuffed-shirt general has taken a dislike to, means that some of the harassment is done by professional field operatives. This enhances the image that one “lone nut” is responsible and hides the true motive. The target may or may not be aware that there is more to it, but would look like a nut themselves (see the Quaid story) if they suggested that.

There was one more oddity where Gaiman was concerned. I thought that I had bought from my local comic store in Brooklyn (after it had been robbed and the robbers trashed the counter and left my comic on top of the mess; I was supporting them to try keep them open after the losses they suffered) The Ultimate Sandman Volume 1. I apparently did not. Don’t know how I came to be so convinced that I had. It was weird. Only time I can really recall having serious memory issues quite like that. I think maybe I dreamed lucidly reading it, turning the pages. It seemed like magic when I suddenly realized I had not made the purchase; reality suddenly shifted.

All of that toward hoping I’d stalk, harass, Neil Gaiman (and others similarly).

This bullshit needs to stop. It won’t, however, unless people are aware of it and how it works and that they use their influence to put it to an end.

Below is another example of a mind-bending experience. I was (am still?) not even able to enjoy going to the movies without being harassed about it later. The person who drew it may not have even been aware of what it meant. Note that LCR (all-see-r?) is an abbreviation for low caliber revolver.



The chalk reads:

all fun & games until some1
who looks like u looses
an all-see-r

(“some1 who looks like u”, possible reference to doppelgänger and a frame-up as well?)

Also recall the lower eyelid damage just before Gay Pride in 2010. I had seen the Jonah Hex advertisement before the screening of Iron Man 2. Shaking you up is a big part of it.

Not only is this about demoralizing a target (me), it’s also another form of isolation and alienation. In taking away what someone enjoys in life, you change them. Then you hit them with subliminal thoughts to try to fill the void you just created with violent ideas. You try to get them to associate their pain with the intended targets, in this case Hollywood and related media. Only the Department of Defense and extreme right-wing radicals hate Hollywood this much.

That’s one of the tricks in trying to drive someone to violence or suicide. Make life seem uncharacteristically harsh.

Now can you see why I would be upset with Barack Obama? He promised better and has not delivered. That’s a fact and it’s becoming more and more apparent that I am not alone in that observation.

Why is to an extent irrelevant. It’s his job, not mine, not Bradley Manning’s, not Edward Snowden’s, to straighten out the people who work for him. Whether he knew and signed off (it started during the previous administration, so that’s a partial no) is irrelevant. He owns it now. That his enemies are pricks should not have to be my concern.

Do you think I work once a week for the Koch Brothers because it’s my choice? I developed a habit over the course of my life called eating. I confess that it’s been almost as difficult to break as breathing. It requires money, sadly, in order to continue doing so.

I was shifted over there by the company I work for after having worked for the company elsewhere (previously owned by Koch) for many months. Not my choice.

There is no valid excuse for this continuing. Not after I’ve made it clear what is happening. The Department of Justice makes itself an accessory after the fact (and that’s the best face one can put on it).

1 Vanity Fair, “The Quaid Conspiracy”, Nancy Jo Sales, January 2011:

Again, these things are very common in OSEH. I have to bring up again, the CIA filled itself with Mormons and the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints illegally funded the opposition to passing gay marriage in California in 2008. Does it take much to do the math?

2 Gizmodo, “Crowd-Controlling MEDUSA Ray Gun Puts Voices Inside Your Head”, Jack Loftus, July 6, 2008:


New Scientist, “Microwave ray gun controls crowds with sound”, David Hambling, July 3, 2008:

Also, see again The CIA Manual of Trickery and Deception for how drugs can be slipped into your food, drink, or directly into your blood or lungs.

3 Truth Out, “Forgetting the Past: One Military Movie at a Time”, David Sirota, February 26, 2012:

4 1977 Senate hearings on MKULTRA, Admiral Stansfield Turner testimony on subprojects including control of animals.

5 Washington Post, “CIA brain experiments pursued in veterans’ suit“, Jeff Stein, November 24, 2010:

6 Again, A Terrible Mistake.


Wicked Game – Chapter 33


Glitter on the wet streets. Silver over everything.

I’m going to be telling some of this backwards… or sideways. That’s how I picked it up, so it will only make sense dramatically out of chronological order. Mostly this will effect the next chapter.

Handed boxes and a rental truck agreement, I was kicked out towards the end of March, before the tax deadline as we had agreed. Someone at Google had been telling my ex that the Twin Cities were the place for writers, artists and musicians so that sounded as good as any.

This was also the location of the FBI field office that dealt with individuals learning to fly but not land planes in August 2001 or so [1].

It was also home to writer Neil Gaiman whom I had contacted about Watts’ plight at some point, where the bridge had collapsed and Paul Wellstone was popular, and the place where Bob Dylan supposedly came up with “All Along the Watchtower” as a child at Prospect Park and its “witchhat” water tower. None of those reasons I was particularly conscious of.

Note that someone named Nina Gislop apparently donated some money to Watts’ defense fund. I do not now believe that was Mr. Gaiman even though this donation was by someone whom Watts stated disappeared from the web as soon as she made the donation and note the initials and number of letters in the name are identical.

Note that Gaiman was having some odd occurrences around that time as well. Sleep deprivation due to pulled fire alarms in hotels with interviews the next morning, the loss of at least one pet, and a few other things.

I never really discovered if it was true about the arts there. I joined the Twin Cities’ scifi writers group briefly and got freaked out by a number of things and so stopped going.

Hilariously, at the first meeting I got involved in a “this is how you do it” debate involving sending promo material to prospective publishers. One fascinating one was written in the subculture jargon of the characters in the novel. Rather than say, “This is what it’s about”, it was a teaser for the style. At first, I thought this might not work, but I said, it might in some circumstances.

There was a brief exchange between the promo/novel author and another writer who clearly had different ideas about this. The author told the other writer, “My book might not be one you would enjoy reading,” indicating that her target audience is different.

From the plot as I understood it, I brought up a book I had read…sort of Dungeons & Dragons meets Ocean’s Eleven. It’s called The Lies of Lock Lamora. (A friend had recommended it and let me borrow it in ’09. We had done something similar in playing a Sherlock Holmes type character in a D&D game I was running before my life fell apart.)

The author’s eyes went wide and lit up.

“Read the dedication.”

Out of all of the writers in the world I could have met, I met–and defended–the one who had helped the writer of the very first book I brought up and that writer had earned the author’s thanks enough to make it in the front of it. I’m not even sure how many coincidences that was all at once.

Soon after, her mother was very ill (like my ex’s had been) and had a stack of medical bills she could not cope with. The writer raised some cash by putting me and others in a story in exchange for donations. It’s online some place.

But that and some other weirdness, I stopped going. Violation after violation of federal law, does not matter to these people. They wanted me isolated so they could drive me to suicide or violence. This is how the federal government operates, even under Barack Obama. Both parties collude on this gigantic lie. There are members of Congress who surely know and hide it. Obama’s people know also, or does Congress now run the Executive? No, it’s greedy soldiers and spooks with strong ties to Wall Street that run things. The government is their punk.

I had also at last gotten to the clinic and found out that it was not in fact colon cancer but rather a hemorrhoid. This from a doctor who griped to his brand new patient about Obamacare.

When I called my ex with the “good news” that I did not have cancer and was not dying, he stated flatly that he had figured it was something like that. This is what he had been thinking when I had told him and he stared off into space, smiling in late February. (Yes…synthetic telepathy… voice-to-skull… brainhacking… Call it what you will. Not even decades of history can overcome it apparently).

And then there was the film experience, the 48-hour festival from inception to showing, that was just bizarre in June of ’10, I think. I’ll come back to that.

In the meanwhile, there was a letter-writing campaign to the governor of Michigan at the time, Jennifer Granholm. A friend of Peter’s had been the ringleader in getting people to send those. She had a recommended bit of text and suggested content.

I would note a few things about Peter’s friend, from what I gathered through exchanges and blog posts on the interwebs. First, she’s loyal and protective. I was incredibly happy to learn Peter had a friend like that. It meant that maybe she could see in his blind spots, and if there was a wolf in sheep’s clothing in Toronto, she might notice if he didn’t. She had just a touch of suspicion, maybe just a little paranoid, which is not a bad thing under the circumstances. The more suspicious she seemed of me, the happier I was. “A woman after my own heart,” I thought.

And then there was the morning, mere days before the sentencing hearing, when I woke up and my hair didn’t feel right. When I put my hand to my head, my hair was falling out. It felt “dead.” Looked in the mirror and essentially lost three inches or so of hairline. When I later went back to Port Huron (this time by plane, train and taxi), it was so curly I could hardly notice it, but certainly can since.

I also note that keanani, another commenter on Peter’s blog, said something along the lines of “Beer for hair, eh?” I cannot recall if this was before or after I bought some hair restoration items.

However, there was a funny incident regarding hair in 1990 at the NJSF. I was playing a friar in Measure for Measure that season and started wearing my hair in that faux Jesuit way even when not rehearsing until I got the feel for it.

I’ve never gotten so many anti-compliments in my life. “Ruprect” from Dirty Rotten Scoundrels was one of names I got called by another intern.

So all that brought the NJSF to mind as well.

In any case, the stuff made hair grow (or so I rationalized) where even at my age, I had heretofore not known there were even hair follicles for it to grow. What existed already (but not that which I lost), grew in length. You know, like a werewolf’s.


And so, always one for contingency plans, I’d just had enough. I got a little drunk and started planning out what in the film The Thirteenth Warrior was referred to as an engineering dispute. (Sort of. Think what it might take to get a mistrial or a new trial–provoke the accuser into again losing his temper, this time publicly.)

Whoever was behind all of this nonsense seemed beyond me…my reach and even figuring out who it might be. So, maybe I’d go for the devil I knew even if he was just another dupe.

Just when I had it all in mind enough to implement, improvise, do it in my sleep, I became violently ill. I did associate one thing with the other and therefore dropped the idea entirely.

But at the same time I came to realize that the whole hair thing had also been used to cover up slipping me something (hormones?) to make me more violent. Testosterone, perhaps. Two players (at least) one drugging me into a wild maniac while the other a hippie, peace and love flower child.

I figured this because I noticed the hair growth almost immediately (except where I lost it) and stopped using the supplements. Yet, the hair growth and the moodiness continued for over a year.

I am fairly certain that that’s illegal even in this sham of a country. If it happened to someone important, they’d be all over it. Happens to someone who can’t afford even a moderate campaign contribution, and you can forget it. No such thing as justice being blind here. That bitch is peaking out and deciding who she helps and who she doesn’t.

Risk of exposing the fact that the 99% are the anytime-puppets of the 1%? No way. Keep you alive so as to avoid the embarassment of the story ending on your watch, but actually resolve it? “Eat shit and die.” The law doesn’t matter when it’s an inconvenience. The system does not accommodate the truth when it really matters.

As usual, they drilled the idea into my head that whatshisname would be at the sentencing hearing even though he had skipped the trial. The fact that I would have been there anyway meant that ensuring my presence there was likely not the motive for setting up that and other high expectations. No. Someone wanted a violent reaction based around an engineered misunderstanding, extreme frustration due to harassment and “misfortune”, remote electronic torture, surreptitious doping, and all around scumbaggery.

They are still doing it, today, right now as I write this. They think that their best defense is to keep doing it because the psychology is, “Why would they continue after it’s been exposed?” They are supreme liars. They are the types who, if caught in bed with someone other than their spouse who also had photographic evidence, would just deny it until the spouse got tired of trying to get them to admit it. “You didn’t see what you thought you saw,” they would say until the spouse believed it. It’s the oldest liar’s trick. Just stick with the lie until it’s accepted as the truth.

They will stick to delusional (because they know that they drugged me), paranoid (because they know that they harassed me), and unstable (because they know that they tortured and ruined me). That’s just “how the world works.”

…because they can. They can because anything goes after 9/11. Because 9/11 is the result of what they did. They continue…

Watch that paragraph go around and round and round.

1 As well as several other connections.

History Commons, “Minneapolis FBI” search


Wicked Game – Chapter 32

“If a Great Wave Shall Fall” [1]

Sorry whatever your name is. Did my best.

The jury was polled. We could tell there were a few who weren’t happy about the outcome, but had most likely caved on a technicality. As mentioned earlier, it was a question of those twelve seconds, though exactly why the conflicting order issue got sidelined, I don’t know.

We sat there crestfallen and waited for the judge to thank and dismiss the jury. Then came scheduling for the sentencing hearing. The judge wanted the second week in April as I recall, about a month away. Peter’s attorney had a federal murder case to defend and tried to move it. The judge suggested leaving it there and seeing if his other case stuck to the schedule.

I went outside, put on my sunglasses and started preparing for whatever came next. I was unemployed and single. My partner had agreed to let me stay and move out after taxes were due mid-April. Besides my own income, there was my comic book publishing company that I had incorporated. We ran at a loss, of course, printing so many issues. As I motioned previously, it was really a stepping stone to writing for TV.

I suppose I expected us to reconcile at some point soon anyway, so didn’t exactly expect that move to happen. The thought of moving to Port Huron to coordinate visitations for Peter’s lady occurred to me, as well as visiting Pete inside as often as he could stand the sight of me.

As you might imagine, I became quite emotional. The worst case scenario had just come to pass it seemed. I was out front of the courthouse and waited to say goodbye.

I posted to Peter’s blog what had happened. The quote at top was part of it I think.

Before Peter, his attorney, and the rest of the Canadian contingent walked out, the accusing guard, the lady guard who stayed for the trial and the other male guard walled by. The accuser and the young lady were also wearing sunglasses. Were also in tears. Yes. Believe it or not. The third guard was not and seemed utterly bewildered by this. The look on his face, “Wait. I thought we hated that Watts guy. Him going to jail is supposed to be good, right?”

Here’s where it gets confusing for me personally.

As they walked by, I said, “Guys…it’s okay. I have family who are cops…soldiers. Just doing your job. I understand. It’s not personal.”

The accuser said, “Oh, no, it never is. You’re a friend of Peter Watts or something?”

“Yeah, something like that.”

There was a great deal of subtext there in the tone. We were both sad, I assure you, that it turned out the way it did. Among the other things I touched on, we had all turned the jury into the enemy for taking so long. Additionally, I think the truth, that this was a man’s life being controlled here over a border stop, finally sunk in with these kids (whatshisname with the walrus mustache notwithstanding).

So. Was I faking it? Acting? Was I lying? Playing the guards?

Or was I serious?

To tell you the truth, I don’t know. It’s incredibly tempting to say that I knew exactly what I was doing, that it was planned or masterfully improvised.

Certainly I had been thinking that some kind of reconciliation might end the whole thing. But why now? All that was left was the sentence. There was talk of up to two years with a possibility of a third over a technicality.

I eventually ran into Peter and the others. We discussed the possibility of my coming back in April.

“I’m planning on possibly being in California next month. Being an American and no sense of geography, I have no idea how far that is.”

“About 2,000 miles,” his attorney offered.

“Two thousand miles…?”

It was after leaving them that I realized I was out of gas and that my checking account for which the debit card worked was low. Called the ex. The answer in a roundabout way was “f— off.” I went back to the Come Sail Away Cafe to say goodbye to the ladies there and try to figure out how to transfer money from the account with some money in it for which the debit card did not work to the empty one for which it did.

There, the ladies let me use their laptop to take care of the banking business.

And they cried when I told them the verdict.

After that was done, I was off. Stopped off at Stratford to see the big Shakespeare theater.


Then back to the road, Brooklyn, living with someone who wishes me dead, and taxes (note the two certainties there).

It was a dark drive back to New York. You can read about it in the border crossing entries, how the guard at Buffalo was so disgusted when he asked why I had been there and the outcome of the case that he simply aborted the entry search and let me go.

There was the stop at the roadside diner where a truck driver about three times my size was so frightened of me he babbled on about Ted Bundy and Vlad Tsepesh to some other stranger in the diner. His hands shook and his brow beaded with sweat (maybe he was using coke or speed to stay awake on a long drive). But the size difference, obvious to me, made no difference to him. He was sure I was going to murder him later.

There were still some letters to write as well. Back to NY to think about them.

I wound up being kicked out well before I could do my taxes. It was an imperative by the ex who could not put into words apart from, “You have no idea how relieved I am that you are leaving.” And I was off to Minneapolis.

Still thinking I had colon cancer of some sort.

April. I can make it to April.

1 We also spoke of the quantum mechanics explanation for some giant wave sightings and ship losses that could not be explained by Newtonian physics models. Scientists had said over and over that waves as high as 200′ were impossible.

What was happening was, three waves were overlapping. Three fifty forty waves met together and created a 100′ wave.

But wait. How then did they report 200′ waves?

Because they were in the trough of the wave. 100′ above sea level when you are 100′ below sea level…let’s see, carry the one…right, 200′.

Soon after moving to Minneapolis I became fond of The Calling’s “Wherever You Will Go.” The title of this chapter is taken from that song and as a reminder of that discussion, that sometimes rock bottom is a matter of perspective, place and time. (It’s also relative–nod to Einstein–because once you think you’ve hit your limit and things get worse, you realize that wasn’t actually your limit).

I even once posted link to it on the blog (removed from NSA subcontractor “We Love Evil” Google’s YouTube since)…

…not having any idea beyond the psychopaths in my government who was reading it.

When I decided to make some of the more crazier sounding posts on the blog private, that one went private as well. The trend of bad things happening to people I occasionally said something nice about had been enough to make me think twice about doing that.

Here’s what happened last week to Adam Band, the lead singer of The Calling about forty-five miles due west of me:

Port Huron Times Herald, “‘The Calling’ lead singer Alex Band reports being kidnapped, robbed in Lapeer”, AP, August 19, 2013:


And a spinal fracture, three broken teeth and stitches.

Just sayin’.

October 11, 2013 update:

Link above is now broken. It does not appear in the paper’s archive either (possibly because it was an AP article).

Additional coverage:

ABC, “Singer Says He Was Abducted, Beaten, Left for Dead”, Linsey Davis and Roger Lee, August 20, 2013:

AP, “The Calling’s Singer Says Was Attacked in Michigan”, August 19, 2013:


Wicked Game – Chapter 31

“Another World”

“When logic and proportion have fallen sloppy dead.”
–Jefferson Airplane

I have skipped over lots of little things that don’t have a direct, obvious connection to the trial so much as what was going on internally. I’ll back up a little and cover those now.

For example, I told Peter briefly what had happened to the NJSF intern in 1989, how she had been fine and then suddenly developed what appeared to be paranoid schizophrenia. How it so happened that an actor from the Festival had done the voice work for Blindsight, and yet that was not the reason I had come to read the book.

Then there was the lunch where I threw out that I had had several concerns about the trial but that the judge had taken care of some and Peter’s attorney had addressed several as he could as defense. For example, the “well he must be guilty because they wouldn’t have a trial if he weren’t” problem that some jury members actually say in the jury room.

The judge made it very clear from the get-go that the jury was not to imply that or anything else from their presence. His disarming demeanor also served to not have the jury looking to him for guidance beyond that of his office and not to infer anything from the presence of an authority figure, a representative of the system, in general.

There was some shock on the faces of the attorney and Peter when I rattled some of those off. They were understandably, from the emails I had sent and some of the posts on his blog, expecting someone more like Mel Gibson in Conspiracy Theory.

I had, in addition to being harassed and drugged, been afraid to come out and describe most of the things that happened precisely as they did. I used what to my mind was “code” at times. I was also frequently writing emails in which the people I actually sent them to were not the intended recipients. I assumed the whole time that my emails were being read by the culprits and maybe someone on the trail of the culprits, and so included on occasion insults to various groups and individuals for that reason as I noted in a previous chapter. At the time I had a much less clear idea as to who specifically might be involved. It was unthinkable to me that the US intelligence community was as corrupt as it clearly is.

Then there was what I think of as being trapped inside my own head. I probably have some of this backwards (was it consciousness disrupted or unconsciousness?) but this is how I think of it. One of the only ways to get out what you really want to say is to use quotes and song lyrics. It’s as though you can’t quite compose those sentences coherently yourself in prose, but something, some center in the brain knows and is trying desperately to tell some other center how to put it into words by pointing to stuff in memory, often pictures and poetry. It was like a game of charades between different parts of the gray matter.

On Wednesday or Thursday afternoon, the Port Huron police were at my strange hotel looking for a fugitive who had supposedly been on the loose the week prior. On Friday, the Health Department was there and it appeared as though they were going to shut the hotel down.

I had joked with Peter and his future wife that every time I went to the front desk, the nice very small lady who was working there had a little dog in the back room that barked precisely the same way every time. I suggested that it might be a recording to make people think she had a dog protecting her (again, I was joking but that’s the kind of weird thoughts you have with this stuff, whatever it is, in your system or when your brain is being pinged with whatever range of waves are being used to disrupt it). On Friday morning, I saw the actual dog, Duke, being walked by the hotel lady.


There is a dog. Cue laugh track. That little thing is named Duke, which made me think of John Wayne.

There was also the discussion of viruses during lunch. As I noted previously, I had been at a few New York gay bars that I’m reasonably convinced were CIA or DoD fronts of some kind. There, I had met someone who resembled to some degree that person I saw in the Brooklyn deli on January 3, 2010 (shorter, more Italian than French looking). Also at the bar was a representative of a pharmaceutical company looking for volunteers for an HIV preventive vaccine. This guy, Ludo he said his name was, had walked over to talk to the rep in part to get my attention. Of course, I think he was more interested in drinking for free than an amorous encounter (since then I’ve known a few straight men who go to gay bars in order to drink free), but I’ll never know because I either didn’t catch on to his hints to buy him a drink or was too arrogant to try to buy him one in order to find out.

But the point, he had given the pharma his contact info just to get me to come over to the bar and talk to him as opposed to smiling and waving from a distance. He played it cool.

The point of the drug test was to accept receiving the drug and then test it by having unprotected sex. It was supposed to present an immunity (though not exactly like a vaccine in the normal sense as I understand it, more as a blocker). So you can imagine my discomfort seeing a young dude maybe risking himself for something that might not work.

Come to think of it, I bought him candy instead of a drink. I wonder what that meant. The pharma dude had given him a lollipop for signing up. I think I used it as an excuse to tell him to be careful. He actually agreed, but I bombed with him in any case.

At the same bar, a few nights later or the next week, I met another guy named Chris. He was a little odd (our brief sneaky liaison in the men’s room was not quite what I had hoped), but also in the ballpark in terms of build to my mysterious visitor. I think I was partially trying to figure out if it was him specifically or a type I was crazy about. I’m afraid that my experiments and the passage of time all point to the former.

But after those two events at Urge, later it hit me. Ludo. Chris. Ludicrous.

While I might now be inclined to consider that a coincidence, the principle I have seen this sort of cruel “punchline” too many times for that to be the only possibility. Recall again Clooney and the baseball bat and Batman.

For that matter, the January 3rd encounter brings to mind several songs. “Don’t Dream It’s Over” (“…try to catch the deluge in a paper [coffee?] cup”) and “Creep” which I had used in The Wisp during a scene in which the young gay activist/graffiti artist is fantasizing about another boy from school (“you’re just like an angel, your skin makes me cry”, “running out the door”, etc.).

PSYOPs. On your tax dollar, America!

They were already keen on my brainwashing situation and trying to present potentially “false patterns” in order to get me to think, dude from the deli is out of my league (as later it would be, too young, dead, straight, someone who hates me, a psychopath, etc.). That’s the game. That’s one of the ways they try to drive people to suicide.

When that fails, make sure their brain doesn’t work right. Get them buying into all kinds of crazy theories. Make them dizzy from the harassment and remote electronic torture. Get them to talk about it and then ridicule them. Make them think it isn’t the government so they are forced to place it on aliens, supernatural, etc. That’s what they do when they drug you without your knowledge.

Back in the courtroom, there was a lighter moment, after the jury asked for clarification and to see the surveillance video again. Peter said aloud after they and the judge left that they were going to come back in ten minutes with a guilty verdict. I glanced at the clock.

Then I said that, no, that wasn’t it at all. There was some contention over some details and that two or more jurors were arguing over them, that this meant they were having a debate. He appeared unconvinced.

“What was that thing called…that Siri Keeton from Blindsight uses… His profession…”, I was asking.

“Topology,” Peter replied.

“Right. Trust me.”

We chatted for a while about other things, like music and age. I ended it with, “What time is it?”

About half an hour had passed. Peter just stated the time.

“How the hell did you write that character?”

This got a laugh. I suppose that was what got me a moral support mention in April. I had not really done any magic. I just recalled my own experiences with being on juries and put myself in their shoes. There was no way to know which side was winning, though.

Peter’s attorney paid me a compliment. I was slow in returning it, somewhere lost inside my own head, maybe even experiencing V2K at that moment or stuck in some churning thought I could not complete. I don’t know.

All this while, I was, again, thinking that all these people knew the dude from the grocery store. Every comment, question, passed through the filter of that. Discussion of music was operating on a second level of meaning for me that the other people in the room were completely unaware of.

I don’t know why the Canadian contingent found it so funny when after I repaid the compliment I said that I was often slow on the uptake. It’s true, though. To go from 1989 to 2010 before realizing what had really happened? That’s a long time.

Overall, there was something refreshing about being able to concentrate on Peter’s problem and to forget about my own. I had believed since February that I had a serious health issue. In April, after moving to Minneapolis, I would discover it had merely been my first hemorrhoid.

There was one other very, very bizarre thing. Everyone…and I mean everyone…seemed larger than life. Everything seemed so bright, so well-lit (pupil dilation?). People seemed iconic, like characters. I believe this, whatever drug or method is used to discredit witnesses against the federal government by the federal government, is what lead to many people visiting the FBI and asking for the “reality show” to be cancelled [1]. I can see why they thought that. It’s how it felt.

There was a stinging comment, but in hindsight not at all unwelcome, where Peter’s future wife accused me of reading tea leaves. It took a while, but it was things like that that I really needed to hear to come to the realization that there was something very wrong with my head and to begin to try to figure out how that came to be and why. It was a long time before that process really started. You tend to focus on the questions that someone else wants you to focus on when you are in a situation like mine. Really, it would not surprise me to find that many witnesses to illegal activities have simply forgotten what they saw because of the harassment being so close to the front of their minds all the time. That is, I think, part of the point.

Friday morning came at the courthouse and there was a bit more of the same. Waiting. Expecting more of a long debate in the jury room, I went outside for a while. One of the security guards came to get me soon after, they jury had come to a verdict at last. I rushed back upstairs and it came.


1 Huffington Post on so-called Truman’s syndrome again: