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:



2 thoughts on “Wicked Game – Chapter 31

  1. Pingback: Wicked Game Chapter 31 | McCoyote

  2. Pingback: Contents | Wicked Game

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