Archive for the ‘Conspiracy’ Category

PutinOne might imagine a scene on the floor of the United Nations where diplomats representing combatants of either side of the Russo-Yank rivalry have their words interpreted for the French Delegation who hear the tits for tats of “Ta Gueule!” responded with a “Casse-toi!” before being trumped with “Nique ta mere!” Putting all of the buggering of mother suggestions aside, the gloves have come off between rival empires in the wake of the FIFA corruption investigation.

It all began when the United States decided to uncover how the hell Qatar, a fossil-fuel enriched sandbox existing along the Persian Gulf as a mole in the back of Saudi Arabia, was granted the rights to host the 2022 World Cup. Qatar is such a literal hell-scape, the preparations for the World Cup games have claimed the lives of thousands of migrant workers (aka Nepalese slave labor) from the brutal desert conditions with thousands of more to come leading up to 2022. How did Qatar, a non-entity in the soccer world until it began buying English Premier teams, win the right to host the games? This was the question America’s Federal Bureau of bullshit sought to answer. What the FBI learned was that FIFA, the soccer plutocracy, is as shifty as a Chicago Alderman learning to drive. What the FBI also learned is FIFA had soiled bedmates with similar corrupt blood running through their villainous veins: mainly Russian Oligarchs and the Qatari Royals, each of whom bribed their way to claiming their rights to host the games. As the investigation proceeds, all is primordial dew-level CHAOS in soccer (aka “football” outside North America) as the rights to host the 2018 and 2022 World Cup are suddenly in question, which means billions of dollars could slip through the fingers of the respective host nations, Russia and Qatar.

Sepp Blatter, "that's the ticket!"

Sepp Blatter, “that’s the ticket!”

Russia, to say the least, is pissed. You can imagine Vlad Putin recalling the zillions of rubles he shoved up FIFA President Sepp Blatter’s ass and shrugging to the international press, “Hey Brah, what happens in Zurich stays in Zurich.” Bribery in soccer, after all, is as natural as a bonobo monkey masturbating seven times a day. WTF FBI? Step off my dick! Vlad Putin has gone on the passive-aggressive offensive and activated his crony, Vladimir Markin, the spokesman for Russia’s own investigative bureau, who is teasing the possibility of launching an investigation into American claims of landing on the moon sometime 45 years ago. Tits for Tats: America questions Russia’s scruples in sports bribery and now Russia is asking America for moon receipts in a lunar audit.

In boxing, we would call this a shot below the belt. I mean, you’re punching at something sacred.

Regardless of America’s current position in the World’s Psyche as “Earth Police” and playing “The Game of Drones”, the United States of America does hold historic relevance as the only society in recorded* history to ever put a boot-print on the moon.

NOTE: history is as legit as its records and it is very possible there have been prior Earth-based peoples who have visited the moon and that this information has been buried, either literally or figuratively.

For Russia to challenge the lunar landings now is suspect, given the Soviets didn’t push the “Moon Landing was a Hoax” theory during the Cold War when such propaganda was worth the weight of a dozen Caucasus wet nurses. Why now? Internet. Russia feels scorned and on the internet there exists a plethora, nay! a fucking avalanche of bullshit about everything. Especially Moon Landing Hoaxes.

We are not contending that [the United States] did not fly [to the moon], and simply made a film about it. But all of these scientific — or perhaps cultural — artifacts are part of the legacy of humanity, and their disappearance without a trace is our common loss. An investigation will reveal what happened. – Vladimir Markin

Vlad Markin’s investigative teaser isn’t necessarily going to challenge history insomuch as ask “where are all the fucking moon rocks?” Good question. NASA? Where are all the moon rocks? Stolen by disenfranchised janitors who made a profit over the internet? Yeah, maybe.

Location of the moon rocks may be the second curiosity voiced by the public in this latest slate of questioning. With the conspiracy status set to red, the world will take a second glance at the possibility the United States did hoax the whole “Giant step for mankind.” As a conspiracy theorist (aka conspiracist as I am being told to call myself by the web-savvy public), I have conducted my own floccinaucinihilipilification by meandering through yesterday’s rejectamenta of alternate hypotheses. I have found a few things worthy of note…

In the Hoax discussion, the first question is what would be the point in NASA/America faking the moon landings? First – as propaganda against the Soviets during the Cold War. Second – NASA wanted to justify its own existence. Third – JFK guaranteed it would happen within the decade.

Okay, fine.

But why would anyone doubt American claims, generally? Foremost – no one else has managed to do it, including the United States, in decades. Putting people on rockets is a bad idea, just look at Apollo 1, Challenger or Columbia missions. China and Europe have space programs, but all they have gotten on our sacred satellite is robots.

My conclusion as a skeptic of historic record is still in process; however I am leaning towards “nailed it!” I believe the risk/reward for getting humans on the moon is so great it has not been worth our continued efforts to go all the damn way to the moon to observe what happens when you drop a feather and hammer at the same time. So yes, I believe Armstrong walked on the moon. We can see from Earth erect flags and astronaut tracks, basically enough evidence to suggest contact.

However, I also believe the filming of the moon landings was faked. This is an entirely different conversation, however, and one I do acknowledge I now owe the public. In due time, I will elaborate.

IN SUMMATION

It is clear Russia is on a public relations tear and it will be interesting to see what they come up with next. If their goal is to make their FIFA scandal seem commonplace, who knows what sort of KGB archives they might open up to discredit the West or what sort of secrets they might coerce out of Ed Snowden? It could be an entertaining summer.

Be on the watch… If the FBI does not strong-arm FIFA into naming a 2018 replacement as host of the World Cup, then we can rest assured that Russia does have a secret they are blackmailing Washington on. One could only imagine what that might be!!! JFK assassination details, 9/11 intelligence, UFO technology, the retirement home of Elvis?

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BAYOU SAINT BASIL, Fla

It was called the greatest sporting day in decades.

Vic down by the Bayou, investigating the latest raccoon atrocity.

Vic down by the Bayou, investigating the latest raccoon atrocity.

Cocktail hour comes early on Derby Day. Across the bog that moistens my doorstep, on the opposite shore, is Odin’s Spit, a filthy stretch of black-dirt beach spilling forth from the shade of pine trees like a fold of abdominal flesh overcoming a waistband. On any common weekday, the pontoon boats and jet-skis start to lineup around 6pm as the local swamp-folk finish toiling at the outlet shopping mall kiosks and return to Bayou St Basil to unwind with a good many cocktail and country music crooning in bathing attire that hasn’t looked good on them in 27 years, nearly half of their life ago. This, however, isn’t any common weekday; this day in question is a Saturday. Derby Day, no less.

It wasn’t half passed 7am before the droning buzz of jet-skis woke me from my recuperative slumber. Fell asleep outside again, holding onto a glass formerly containing what was likely a flavorful elixir of botanicals bathed in rum or gin. Whatever may had spilled on my Van Halen reunion tour shirt would have evaporated in the night to the din of the screeching sister-fucking raccoons clawing after Manchurian flavored Styrofoam containers thieved from nearby refuse containers. By 9am, Odin’s Spit is aflame with sunburnt bog people, brunching on cheap cinnamon candied-whiskies and fellatio-by-proximity.

I wouldn’t say there is a Derby Day tradition here at St Bas Trailer Park. For a while, the ruling matriarch Queen Georgia (God rest her blaspheming soul), set a standard with flamboyant hats and mint-julip inspired cocktails, which were little more than Bacardi & Sprite with green food coloring. Nonetheless, you’d hear Queen Georgia’s smoky-throated catcalls to the pontoon boat captains, “I feel like such a slutty debutante and I am as stoned as Mary-fucking-Magdalene!” I shouldn’t speak poorly of Queen Georgia. I still feel guilty about the words overheard by her widower’d boyfriend who collected her remains while in his sandals, jean shorts and prison-tattooed sleeves… prison tattooed arms despite his never spending more than weekends in jail for illegal possession or soliciting a minor.

One of the feral kids came by with a tin can full of pennies and started speaking the clicks and hoots of the language of birds he and the other feral bastards speak to each other. I tossed a disposed corn cob at the child and despite the projectile’s lack of edible kernels, the feral bastard was content to gnaw on the rind with his eerie shark teeth and leave me to my freshly brewed coffee.

“Derby Day, Boss.” One of the Jamaicans from next door happened by. He wanted to bet on horseflesh, as did I; but I don’t piss in my backyard, as it were. He hung around to share a cigarette, which I didn’t want, and to chat. All was bombocloth and other fuckery I didn’t understand. I asked him if he ‘Rasta’ with all dem dreads and he just shine a smile, laugh and ebb like slack tide.

derby dayLONGWOOD, Fla

I took the county bus towards Casselberry – hopping on the metro three stops further east than I needed to, hopping off two stops earlier than necessary, all to disassociate myself from a regular travelling pattern – and then walked the rest of the way towards the Jai Lai arena. There’s a Cuban sandwich joint I go to when I need to spend money to get money. I used to do the majority of my gambling in the back room at The Copper Rocket, but since the Governor shut them down, I have been something of a gambling vagabond having brief, illicit, one-night affairs with various bookies of varying degrees of sketchy aftershave. Manulito is a cool fucking cat. He’s old enough to have ears like satellite dishes. They say the ears and the nose keep growing the older you get and this Manulito must have more tree rings than half the oaks in Seminole County. The white fluffy hair sprouting out of those elephantine ears is almost reminiscent of Spanish moss, completing the oak tree analogy.

Doc Kelly showed up. I had Manulito place a call and sure enough, the dude showed… the nerve. Manulito pressed a couple breakfast sandwiches as Doc and I sat down to pretend to read Spanish newspapers and sip café con leche as if we weren’t already both over-caffeinated. Doc was getting over the flu, as was I, both of us independently suffering this last week. We hadn’t seen each other in two weeks, which made me think Doc was kissing on my girl again. Not that she was my girl and maybe he even tipped her better, but nevertheless, I have been drinking more NyQuil than beer this week and I blamed Doc for these ills one way or another.

Boxing Floyd Manny

A Place (To Place Bets)

There is a thing called “the Gambler’s Fallacy” which is the belief that after so many strokes of a certain type of luck, that luck must turn. For example, if you flip a coin and it lands “heads” three times in a row, you might think the next flip has to be “tails” because chance would suggest so… and that would be false. Fallacy. The flip you make is still a 50% chance of “tails” regardless of whichever shit occurred prior.

Similarly, you could keep betting that a crooked sport is eventually going to go straight-arrow and this too would be fallacy. This Manny Pacquiao versus Floyd Mayweather fight has generated such an ungodly amount of money it should be seen in the same lens as a MARVEL: AVENGERS movie. There are too many parties involved, the stakes are too high; you must make one with the promise of another, regardless of how it cheapens the event. Even if there is moral outrage in the streets of the world on Sunday over the scripted nature of this fight, it has to be fixed and those who fix it will become all the more profitable regardless of the shame cast upon them. So dig this: in December, when this ‘greatest fight of the fucking millennium’ was announced, there were 24:1 odds of a draw. Those odds are currently 10:1 for the stalemate. I don’t think Floyd or Manny will take a fall, but I do believe they will be in on the ruse and fight for a stalemate, which would insist on a sequel. For all the money they may be worth, they would be worth a lot more if they could fight this match again.

Politics, Boxing and Horseflesh will never be fair game as long as the power and control are in the hands of the financiers.

I put a few paychecks on a Pacquiao/Mayweather draw and I spilt my pizza delivery tip jar in the direction of American Pharaoh to win the Kentucky Derby. I put a Bitcoin down on the San Antonio Spurs plus 2 in Game 7, for the sake of nostalgia if nothing else. Nothing I can’t lose.

Doc Kelly asked if I could clean myself up by the afternoon. Did I have a smoking jacket and a pair of slacks? He finagled our names onto the invite list for a Derby Day/Fight-Night gala with the Lake Osceola Yacht and Leisure Club and I needed to present myself as a decent Florida gentleman. I stopped by the backdoor of the Bosniak-run dry-cleaners and bought someone’s tuxedo off the meat rack for $20 and my favorite pair of flip-flops. All I need now are the cufflinks.

The Good Money’s on Floyd/Manny Draw…. Shake it and roll! Yahtzee!

THE OUTCOME: vic breaks even

Mayweather vs Pacquiao: Vic bet on the draw and Floyd Mayweather won convincingly.

Kentucky Derby: Vic bet on American Pharaoh and American Pharaoh won!

NBA: Vic bet Spurs +2 and the Clippers won by 2 – it’s a push.

Vic and Doc at the Derby party...

Vic and Doc at the Derby party…

March 2015, Argentina somewhere near the Paraguayan border, beneath the slithering vines of jungle and within a forgotten stone structure, a horde of happenstance archaeologists struck gold. Nazi gold. The diggers of the University of Buenos Aires uncovered a trove of swastika-stamped coins, neatly deposited in an evil little cubby-hole awaiting collection from its owner, undoubtedly some long-dead, god-forsook, goose-stepped, villain reeking of schnapps and dry-roasted Pan Am peanuts.

Who owns this treasure?

Is it Argentina, the country which welcomed fleeing Nazis in the late 1940’s with open-arms and spread-legs? Yeah, I am looking at you, Evita: sleeping your way up the fascist food-chain until Juan Perón became dictator of Argentina and you, enterprising slut you, went on your European shopping spree, the “Rainbow Tour”, seeking out hidden Nazis in Franco’s Spain and inviting them to bring their loot back to the banks of Buenos Aires via the ever-accommodating Swiss (so typical, Switzerland). After all the Nazi riches Eva (aka Evita aka Madonna “Don’t cry for me Argentina”) Perón brought into Argentina, what’s a few more coins?

Nazi Gold? You have (Madonna) Evita's attention!

Nazi Gold? You have Madonna Evita’s attention!

Or should the gold be shipped back to Germany where the keepers of a guilty conscience might sift through the loot in order to decide of whom it was stolen from in the first place only to be lost in a bureaucratic boondoggle?

Perhaps you (You, dear reader) have a claim… Your grandparents’ gold fillings in their teeth may have been seized by Nazis marauding through the Old Country and those fillings were melted down into swastika-stamped dimes and now you want your dimes back. Go grab your International Law barrister and argue your heart’s content!

You see, I don’t give a damn. The Nazi coins can be wished away in wells for fuck-all I care.

NAZI GOLDAye, you may think this a hypocritical stance for a renowned treasure hunter, such as Victor Ulysses Neverman, to take. Chances are you are right. Au is still Au on the periodic table, regardless of whose eagle is emblazoned upon it. Yet… Nazi Gold is Nazi. Fucking cursed. I would argue the gold of El Dorado I searched for in 2000, 2007 and 2013 was not cursed or the byproduct of evil men. The Spanish Conquistadors never found ‘the Gilded-One’ and never had a chance to collect the gold they shed blood over. No, when it comes to El Dorado, the only curse is on those foolish enough to seek it and… well, I didn’t have anything else going on at the time, so why not head down to South America for some high stake hijinks?

This Nazi Gold, though, is a different story.

All that glitters is not gold;
Often have you heard that told:
Many a man his life hath sold
But my outside to behold:
Gilded tombs do worms enfold.

– Shakespeare, The Merchant of Venice

Nazi Gold in South America: WHAT? WHY? HOW?

There is plenty of Nazi Gold to be found in South America and Nazi Gold is much easier to stumble upon than the famed riches of the mythical city of El Dorado. These coins found in March of 2015 represent a larger collection of stashed-away loot which is not just a relic of the Third Reich, but rather the spilled coffers of the Fourth. Yes, the Fourth Reich, the Nazi leftovers already integrated into the global political and economic system.

Allow me to take a deep quaff off of this draft before I elaborate…

In the mid-1940s, as the drums of impending doom could be heard in the Berlin bedchambers of sleepless Nazi party officials, a scheme was hatched. Not by Hitler. By then, Adolf’s nerves were woven into a case of baskets and his wits congealed into tapioca. It was Martin Bormann, the head of the Nazi Party, who designed Aktion Adlerflug (or ‘Operation Eagle Flight’ to us of the English persuasion). The plot was to continue National Socialism beyond the inevitable fall of Germany. Aktion Adlerflug was devised as a means to send capital abroad to be absorbed into American corporations and South American fascist regimes. Certainly, the United States and the Soviet Union picked their own kickball squads out of the Nazi scientists they captured (‘Operation Paperclip would send the Western kickball squad back to America).

Martin Bormann, leader of the Nazi Party.

Martin Bormann, leader of the Nazi Party.

It would be those Nazis uncaptured – the war criminals and party officials too infamous to return to Rhineland agriculture or apply for a job as a machinist at Bayerische Motoren Werke – who required ulterior methods for escaping Nuremburg justice. For these, there were the ‘Rat Lines’ of Aktion Adlerflug. ‘Rat Lines’ were smuggling routes for assisting Nazis out of Europe. Otto Skorzeny ran Die Spinne (‘the spider’) route through Franco’s Spain. ODESSA (‘Organisation der Ehemaligen SS-Angehörigen’) is another Rat Line glamorized in literature and rejected histories. Even if ODESSA did not exist, as many historians argue, the safe passage of many Nazis to South America cannot be argued. Both Argentina and the Vatican issued thousands of blank passports to fleeing Nazis (courtesy of Juan Peron and Pious XII, who historian John Cornwell wrote about in his 1999 book Hitler’s Pope), allowing them to reinvent identities elsewhere. Elsewhere, the USA & USSR indiscriminately absorbed Nazis into their military industrial ranks. This migration of Nazis isn’t a simple conspiracy; it is a goddamn flea market of auctioned-off evil.

Yeah, so, you know why Paraguay has the most identical twins in the world? Because of Nazi genetic experimentation!

– Jacobo Van Buren, who studied paranoia under the tutelage of Vic Neverman
Nazis in South America

 

mengeleEver hear of SS Doctor Josef Mengele, aka “Angel of Extermination”? He performed genetic experiments at Auschwitz and had a fascination for twins. Josef left the concentration camp one step ahead of the liberating Russian army and made his way to Argentina in 1949. Pursued by the Mossad Israeli Intelligence, Joseph fled to Paraguay in 1959 and to Brazil in 1960. One step ahead of the Nazi hunters, Josef Mengele would never be captured. He suffered a stroke while swimming off the coast of Brazil in 1979 and drowned. He was buried as Wolfgang Gerhard; a 1992 exhumation identified the body as Mengele.

EichmannHow about Obersturmbannfuehrer Adolf Eichmann? Eichmann was one of the masterminds of the Holocaust. He too eluded fled to South America. In 1960, however, the Mossad found him, captured him, double-checked his identity, smuggled him out of Argentina (who refused to extradite former Nazis) as an unconscious flight attendant (they actually flew a commercial airliner to Senegal and then Tel Aviv with Eichmann sedated) to Israel where he was tried and eventually executed.

Whatever happened to Martin Bormann, the leader of the Nazi Party at war’s end? Officially, West Germany says Bormann died trying to escape in 1945, but their case was based on a Nazi-loyalist dentist’s memory of Bormann’s teeth when the remains of his grave were presented in the 1970s. Paul Manning, a journalist for the NY Times once wrote of Bormann’s actual escape from Berlin, a passage that includes Bormann posing as a Dominican monk in Spain before arriving in Buenos Aires in 1947. Manning received a report from the FBI (yes, this would be the American Federal Bureau of motherfucking I) which tracked Bormann’s progression from 1948 through 1961 through Argentina, Paraguay, Brazil and Chile. In 1998, fragments of the 1945 skull of Bormann found in Berlin were “conclusively” tested positive as Bormann’s despite all the evidence of his extended mortality elsewhere. Written history is a bitch like that… a fitting end justifies ill-fit means. Just a hunch, but I would guess Bormann expired in South America and his remains were secretly transported by the Fourth Reich to Berlin where skulls were swapped and a conspiracy buried.

Just in case you wanted to read Manning’s book on Bormann, it is available to read here.

Dénouement

Seek Nazi Gold at your own risk. As a man who has wandered South America in search of riches, this is one carrot I haven’t reached for. I have a compadre who created a bird-watching association for the sole purpose of wandering South America with a “red herring” excuse as he searches for leads on Nazi Gold. While I have, indeed, joined his Avian Society Of Lake Eola as the official photographer and bird identifier, this was more of a social maneuver to get myself invited to parties to be nearer a certain woman whose presence escapes me.

Lo! my point remains – leave the Nazi Gold. Instead, grab a caipirinha or a pisco sour and find yourself a local to teach you how to not dance like a gringo. Now that is worth its price in gold.

Yeah the Russians are here. I mean, they’re everywhere, but especially in Nashville.

– Layla Santana Crow

NASHVILLE, Tenn

Paranoia is a cottage industry in Tennessee where there exists a strange stew of Revelators, Second-Comers, Doomsday-preppers, bootleggers and coonskin-capped militiamen cooked together by the overhead high-voltage power lines running roughshod through the hinterlands. None of the above characters, however, have cornered the Russophobic market in these foothills like Texan native, Layla Santana Crow. In short time, Layla has become an urban myth in Nashville; spoken of, yet rarely seen and when seen, the witness is left dumbstruck enough to be certified as a hysteric. The going wisdom is to not seek out Layla Santana Crow because, sooner or later, she will find you.

I flew into Nashville beside a rhinestone and sequin-bedazzled woman who smelled like a duty-free store (a mélange of perfume samples with a splash of spilt single-malt) who had heard of Layla Santana Crow. Legend had it, or so conveyed my partner-in-transit, Layla had two wolves smuggled from Siberia who could smell Russians from a mile away.

If you ask the pit-boss behind the counter at the airport pork-rib depot, he will tell you that seeking out Layla Santana Crow is akin to dressing up a possum for Sunday service, which meant, amongst other things, updating my last will and testament and grabbing a shovel to bury good intentions.

If you weave your way through the Papists and Baptists of Sunday morning (do avoid the dressed-up possums) while inquiring laypersons of the aforementioned Layla, more than one will ask if your head had been touched without specifying by whom. “Touched by God, son.” One wizened miser clarified while a spinster spoke in condescendingly sympathetic tones, “Bless your heart.” They once knew of a fella like me, more or less bearded, who went looking for “Leah Crow” and when he laid eyes on her he burst into flames. Spontaneous combustion: one moment pyrophoric hipster, the next – poof – ashes. Dust to dust, etcetera.

And yet, into the foothills of Tennessee I sought her, this Layla Santana Crow…

Layla Santana Crow confronts Vic, "were you followed?"

Layla Santana Crow confronts Vic, “were you followed?”

Assuming the identity of my alias, Bucky Swoon, Esq., I tracked down Layla Santana Crow’s whereabouts to a jazz club this side of Ghost Creek where she was holding court amongst the homegrown moonshiners and imported bourgeois from the Atlantic seaboard. The Ghost Creek Jazz Club was a cigar bar which practiced ventilation via osmosis (absorption through the cement walls) and it wasn’t until I kneeled somewhere between sax and trombone before I had any visibility beyond four inches. Scanning the knee-scape, I found a high-density of sophisticated man-slacks near the bar and rightly assumed it to be the compilation of Layla Santana Crow admirers. Betwixt the sophisticated slacks, I deduced, sat the spy-huntress, herself. Her entourage of admirers, asthmatic and arrhythmic (bouncing in-and-out-of-sync to the jazz), was easily dispersed when I began accidentally lighting their silken neckties afire instead of my own cigar. While the fog refused to clear and her face wasn’t quite visible as I neared, the sheer radiance of Layla Santana Crow created a halo in the suspended cigar smoke, providing her more of a celestial quality than even I was accustomed to.

“Hey Vic.” She spoke non-committal, stoic-even, seeing through the smoke and past the Bucky alias in spite of the mustache I had groomed for the occasion. “Were you followed?”

Russian Spies in America

The trial of Igor Sporyshev, the Russian banker in New York who was attempting to funnel financial information back to the Kremlin, reminded Layla Santana Crow of the unearthed spies of her youth. Specifically, Layla was reminded of Anna Chapman, circa 2010 (aye, Layla is a bit younger than us Cold War kids), the sexy spy who had infiltrated New York high society prior to being outted and who has become a celebrity in Moscow after the United States performed a spy-swap with Putin.

Anna Chapman and Igor Sporyshev: Neo-Cold War Russian Spies

Anna Chapman and Igor Sporyshev: Neo-Cold War Russian Spies

“Anna Chapman is an example of how the Kremlin is attempting to spy on America – by infiltrating our social crème de la crème. Yeah, so this guy Igor, the banker, was a fat a-hole, but he was still trying to get American coeds to act as spies for Russia.” Layla Santana Crow explained. “Russia is going straight to the well for their intelligence: they are spying on the housewives of Washington and New York. I bet they have analysts in Havana watching North American television for TMZ and every reality show just for the gossip.”

Indeed, contemporary Russian spies might have a different modus operandi than former generations, but do not doubt their malice for a modicum of a second as their Grand Master is still Vlad “the Paler” Putin, formerly of the KGB. Today’s Russian spies might be educated on episodes of Saved By The Bell, but they are raised on deception and sabotage from the first day they suckle upon the vodka-infused milk of the teat of Mother Russia. It may be a mafia state which governs the Russian people, but its spies are nostalgic for the old Soviet Empire and eager to fulfill a vendetta against the West, regardless of the different ideologies at play during the chilling 20th Century schism. Whether you believe the Cold War was Democracy vs. Totalitarianism or Capitalism vs. Communism or the Establishment vs. Populism, you could boil the fat out of the whole brouhaha into being nothing more than an imperial gun show. 2015 or 1965, it makes no difference.

Russian Spies in Tennessee?

Russians love Country Music and they see Nashville as the gateway to the soul of America. There is nothing more American than a sorrow-drunken cowboy dancing in his boots and there is nothing more Russian than a bare-chested Premier riding a bear as he invades the Ukraine. The second-most Russian thing, however, is a sorrow-drunken Cossack dancing in his boots.

Cossacks are just Cowboys born of another  mother

Cossacks are just Cowboys born of another mother

“For Russian spies whose first language is not English…” Layla Santana Crow told me over lunch at a fashionable East Nashville burger bar. “They can hide their Caucus accent if they enunciate with a southern drawl. It is a lot easier for a spy to acclimate into the Country Western scene, than say, Hip-Hop or Hipster, because the twang accent is easy to emulate and the music lyrics describe exactly how a countryperson must live: a steady dose of religion, alcohol, good times and sorrow.”

“Country music lacks the ambiguity of alternative hipster shit.” Cyrus Lee Hancock, Layla’s head of security, chimed in. “Whether it is a song about drinking liquor before beer or a song about falling in love at night school while pursuing your GED, country music gets to the point. If a Russian spy has to lie about where he was on the night of August 5th at approximately 2200 hours, he can just quote his favorite country song, ‘I was shooting Fireball while lying in the bed of my pickup truck, looking at a picture of Rhonda Sue who was known as being good for uhhh luck.”

“In short, Russians are already half-hillbilly and it is easy enough to fake the rest.” Layla concluded.

Spy-Hunting in Nashville

Layla Santana Crow was neither raised by wolves nor does she own any. Instead, she has a pair of German Shepherds (one is named after a Top-Gun character, another after a salad) who, allegedly, can smell borscht at a hundred yards. It helps her sleep at night.

“Potential Ruby at twelve o’clock with the shaven head and bear-tooth necklace.” Layla spoke between bites of gluten-free biomass as we lunched at the recycled pharmacy on the eastside. “His front teeth are fake, which is common among Rubies who spend their youth getting head-butted and/or falling on their face after draining too many vodka bottles.”

“Or he’s just a dirty hipster with a smack problem.” Security Chief Cyrus Lee pitched-in. “Heroin isn’t good for the chompers.”

“What about the goon sisters over there?” I mentioned with a head nod. “These guys are a pair of ‘Rubies’ if I have ever seen one.”

“Doom and gloom.” Layla Santana Crow named the untoward thugs. “And they’ve pancake batter on their faces to disguise the burst blood vessels in their noses. Another sign of a Ruby. Vic, take a picture of us and be sure to frame the image with the goon sisters in the background so I can add to the database.”

Cyrus Lee and Layla in the foreground with the Goon Sisters in the background

Cyrus Lee and Layla in the foreground with the Goon Sisters in the background

One of the surefire ways to out a Ruby (Layla’s codeword for “Russian Spy”) is to approach one on the sly and engage them with a joke in Russian. Neither Layla nor her head of security speak Russian, but they can sound out the words. For example, Cyrus Lee Hancock will follow a potential Ruby into the bathroom and while poised before the latrines quip, g’p-ka nush-nee which often gets a chuckle out of anyone who understands Russian and who agrees it smells like horse stables are near. At high society events, Layla, dressed to the nines without doubt, will approach a Ruby at the bar and order a double-vodka tonic. She isn’t the greatest fan of vodka, but the order alone will perk up the ears of any Russian. Layla will then take a sip and mention how it tastes like home, but instead of speaking English, she’ll mumble f’vus ga doma. When the Ruby’s eyes light up, the trap is snared.

“Vic, discreetly take a picture of our beers and be sure to focus on the tracksuit.” Layla said. “Only a Ruby would wear a tracksuit that expensive and have such a horrid taste in foot attire.”

The Speakeasy

We parked somewhere downtown, or so I judged by the street traffic I heard. It wasn’t until Layla whispered the password du jour to the doorman and we were safely in the basement (or the attic, I was a bit dizzy) before Cyrus Lee Hancock removed the blindfold from my gourde, granting me sight. We were in a speakeasy. Despite the hordes of desperate dipsomaniacs begging for a seat, there was a table already reserved for Layla and her plus 2. There was nothing on the menu necessarily verboten and we weren’t here for the $12 Dark & Stormy. This speakeasy was a hub of clandestine activity: political hitmen extracted bribes beneath table tops, a Rosicrucian proselytized a defrocked priest, a guitarist sold his soul to the agent who picked him up at the crossroads and some half-naked pagans prostrated themselves before a boar’s head. It was here, Layla Santana Crow surmised, the Russian sleeper agents would meet their handlers over nefarious naval-strength rum drinks.

Some might call Layla’s spy-hunting senseless fear-mongering. She calls it proactive counterintelligence. All it takes is a few firebrand Neo-Soviets to become embedded in Nashville’s Country Music scene and then if there is ever a Russian invasion (perhaps through Canada once the Arctic melts), Putin’s conquerors will have a Nashville fifth column of sympathizers at the ready. As we finished our drinks at the speakeasy, I mentioned to Layla my opinion on the greater threats of American-bred spies hired by the Qatari Royals and, even worse, the largest intelligence network in the world according the late Kyril Bonfiglioli – the International Chinese Waiter Union.

Layla Santana Crow, in the unsettling way in which she comes out of her thousand-yard stare to refocus locally upon your face, tilted her head ever so slightly before finally responding to my comments. “Really, Vic? Paranoid much?”

See also…
***Layla on the Illuminati’s influence of Hip-Hop***

PINE HILLS, Fla

Across the tracks there exists an oversized barnacle which was converted into an oyster bar at some point while Truman was in office. Inside the barnacle and over the commotion of shell-shucking, I was barstooled and attempting to follow the logic of Erasmus insofar: he wasn’t listening to me and if he wasn’t listening to me he couldn’t hear my questions and if he couldn’t hear my questions he certainly wasn’t going to fucking answer them.

“What’s this broad to you, anyway?” between grumbles.

“What’s she to you?”

Oysters are meatier when harvested in months with an

Oysters are meatier when harvested in months with an “r” somewhere

Erasmus, stoic and chilled as the Apalachicola oyster on his cracker, glared into my skull. It was apparent he fancied Viv and he growled when I mentioned her name as if it were too sacred to be spoken within ear-range of the salty characters surrounding us. He asked again. I told him: Vivien Escobar was the cruise director for the Lake Osceola Cocktail and Leisure Society. What of They? This of They: according to my source, the Lake Osceola Cocktail and Leisure Society happened to be a clandestine club of elites who secretly ran Orlando.

“Who’s your source?”

GOTHA, Fla

“Have you ever heard of the Bilderberg Group?” Doc Kelly winked at me over something which qualified as a sandwich only in taxonomical terms – it was built between boundaries of bread, but this is where the similarities ended and where the slaughtered pig, pineapple slices, crushed peanuts, granola and a pint of the house barbeque sauce suggested something more abstract than sandwich.

the word barabicu derives from the Timucua People native to Florida

the word barabicu derives from the Timucua People native to Florida

“Of course I have heard about the Bilderberg Group!” And I had. It was an annual rendezvous of the world’s most influential bankers and politicians where world policy was allegedly set. It is Conspiracy Theory 101, every paranoid worth his caffeinated hand-tremors knows about the Bilderbergs.

“Well, these guys…” Doc Kelly went on, using an entire roll of paper towels to wipe a shmear of greasy pig tears from his left cheekbone. “Are like the Bilderbergs, but worse.”

I was halfway listening as the other half was in the bag. I was quickly quaffing pints of the house draft in an attempt to build up enough Dutch courage to make an assault on my own sandwich whose girth qualified, uniquely, as a First World Problem.

“Worse?”

“Yeah, well they golf and they don’t pay their taxes like everyone else, but these guys are evil.”

“Evil? How is the Lake Osceola Cocktail and Leisure Society evil?”

“They built the Eyesore of I-4.”

“Jesus.”

YAKISOBA SUPPER CLUB, undisclosed location somewhere in Fla

Doc Kelly infiltrated the Lake Osceola Cocktail and Leisure Society. If either of us were to get in, he’d be the surer bet. I have the social graces of an asthmatic cat having just licked itself clean whereas Doc… the man can sell. He can walk into your living room and tell you fifty-three ways your home is a tinderbox just waiting to roast you alive and oh!, by the way, he happens to have a trunk full of fire extinguishers if you’re in the market. Doc has the smile of a buzzard at a roadside buffet and the determination of one of those golems of Jewish lore (you know the ones – the clay robots you put magical scrolls inside and they do all of your bidding, not that Doc is a robot or made of clay or even circumcised for all we know, but he’s damned persistent). Doc Kelly isn’t even a physician; he is just a salesman of snake oil and other acne-reducing, libido-enhancing, baldness-correcting formulas where the nickname of ‘Doc’ comes in handy. Between his golemic tendencies, his moniker and his carrion charm, Doc Kelly was able to will his way into one of Central Florida’s most illustrious secret social clubs.

Which brings this narrative to the close of the latter year: Doc Kelly’s newfound elite caste status is how we found ourselves at the Yakisoba Supper Club on New Year’s Eve.

The Yakisoba Supper Club is not the sort of establishment you look-up in the yellow pages. It was founded by a bunch of World War II Marines who returned from the Philippines with a shit-ton of Japanese/Nazi gold and needed to find a place for the bastard sons they brought back to valet park cars. Or so reads the Zagat review… Today, Yakisoba Supper Club is an underground sushi den of intrigue with an exclusive VIP reservation chart. It is rumored hostess Vivien Escobar whittled down the list of those invited by way of Ouija board.

NYE Yakisoba EventAh yes, Vivien Escobar, the gate-keeper. While Doc Kelly may have gained entry into high society based on good breeding alone, his bearded sidekick (your narrator) would have been left outside the velvet ropes if not for Erasmus of Otter Dam persuading Vivien Escobar into accepting both beastly heathens into her New Year’s Eve bacchanal brouhaha. Vivien Escobar, as it seems, is at evens, when not at odds, with the mercurial lothario, Erasmus, a semi-permanent resident on happenstance sabbatical leave from Otter Dam Military Academy where he lectures on Cold War etiquette. Vivien’s strange inclination towards Erasmus served, if you will, as my entry fee into the realm of relevance. Of course, I still had to pay the nominal cover-charge to get inside the Yakisoba Supper Club: a second-born son, a $23 money-order made out to Renaldo Hammerstein and a virgin on layaway worthy of sacrificing.

GPS directions will not lead you to the Yakisoba Supper Club. In fact, satellite navigation systems tend to go debunk this deep in the bayous of Central Florida. Fortunately, I am an esteemed member of the Pizza Delivery Guild and thusly educated with celestial navigation, but, unfortunately, the valet car attendants (Filipino-American great-grandsons of the WWII Veteran founders of the Yakisoba Supper Club) upon arrival take your keys, then your shoes, then your sight (via blindfold), spin you around in a circle, tickle your abdomen and push you down a garden path to be picked up by a trolley car and dumped off in a cemetery, still blinded, mind, where St Bernards are present with casks of champagne for refreshment before, finally, you are given back your keys and your car and provided a map of evaporating ink illustrating where to find the Supper Club of lore.

The Yakisoba Supper Club existed, at least on this night, in a Cuban Missile Crisis concrete bunker resurrected as an early-post-(post-modern) Japanese dojo. The front door lied behind a complicated maze of bamboo forest, tiki torches, a giant phallus of some Norse deity, a pond of koi feeding off of indiscernible human waste, a few rusty Cambodian landmines for good measure and a waterfall façade. We opted for the kitchen entrance. Within the Supper Club, we were greeted by anglicized geishas with angular mascara and a proneness to fits of courtesy giggles. I was handed a Kemosabe Crawl (a martini glass filled with two fingers of gin, a finger formaldehyded, a splash of vermouth and a cherry pit) which I passed along to Doc. Doc fed the Kemosabe Crawl to an unsuspecting bonsai and ordered himself a Wasabi Ruin (two fingers dry gin, one finger vodka, a spit of vermouth and a gumball of wasabi) to clear up his sinus allergies, which is what he claimed was responsible for the rash he picked up during his last trip to Ybor. I opted for Florida-brewed ale adequately hopped and malty. From behind a Golden Buddha (which I believed was a statue until I realized it was just another fat dude spray-painted into performance art) emerged Vivien Escobar with her hair tied-up in Alpine golden pigtails and her fingernails manicured by indentured Vietnamese exchange students. Ever the gracious hostess, Vivien fawned over the regality of our appearance. Being of noble birth, herself, by way of Pittsburgh, she tended to speak in the plural and use the fullest extent of first names, so I was always “Victor!” and Doc was always “Doctor!”

Vic Neverman sipping nigori, photo-bombed by Vivien Escobar

Vic Neverman sipping nigori, photo-bombed by Vivien Escobar

“Victor, you appear so dashing!” Vivien feinted to faint. Then she pretended to find consciousness. “We love the irony of your outfit. We’re unsure if you are being facetious-chic or fascist cat-fancier. Either way: LOVE!

“And Doctor, Darling!” Vivien swooned, kissing either of his cheeks, “We’re inspired by the multilayered patterns of black. You’re a living expression of a canvas void enough to fill with your sophistries and oyster-oil miracle cures. And let us just tell you, your datil pepper cream has done wonders on our athlete’s foot.”

Vivien Escobar guided us to a table near the platform where drummers and juggling unicyclists and contortionists would later hold the stage. At the table, sat Vivien’s endeared Erasmus, he of Otter Dam Military Academy, who held court with an audience of Kip Jurgenson, the “Realty Queen of Winter Park”, and a quartet of Royal Dutch snooker players. Vivien blew kisses and evaporated into the champagned humidity.

Set to the rhythm of maniacal drumming by five-foot Japanese girls, our feast began. Doc and Kip were downing sake in quarts and though the Realty Queen was bellowing laughter vaguely reminiscent of the Late Permian Extinction Event, her thin lips tightened like a jealous husband’s handshake when I asked of the secret dealings the Lake Osceola Cocktail & Leisure Society was involved in. Breaking the awkward silence which followed, I turned to the geisha at our threshold and ordered a few more bottles of sake and a sushi roll called Widowed Mantis which involved a Bahamian lobster tail stuffed with shrimp tempura, all bound in eel skin and topped with fried kale flakes.

“Okay, I will tell you something.” She offered. “Just don’t use my real name. Call me ‘Kip Jurgenson’ and say I am ‘the Realty Queen of Winter Park’.” We agreed to terms. Kip went on, “Here it is, my big reveal: ‘Life is a sexually-transmitted disease.’” Kip then burst into laughter which killed off the last of the Royal Dutch snookers and none too soon as I never trusted the Dutch, let alone snookers.

“Who are you calling ‘hooker’?” Doc Kelly winked at me as Kip Jurgenson fell into epoch-ending guffaws before the two of them broke into a duet rendition of Jimmy Buffet’s Come Monday.

Yakisoba SushiI was eating pickled-ginger by the handful to wash the taste of paranoid angst from my palate. The radioactive spicy tuna, courtesy of fucking Fukishima fallout, wasn’t helping the bilious humors either. Kip Jurgenson’s message was more than meaningless – she was quoting (“life is a sexually-transmitted disease”) a message on the wall of a Yakisoba Supper Club’s men’s lavatory stall etched fifteen minutes prior by the unsteady hand of yours truly, Vic Neverman. This brought to my mercury-laden mind a few essential questions:

  1. Was Kip Jurgenson quoting my random graffiti as a means to let me know she knew what I was up to (sniffing for conspiracies)?
  2. Or was it dumb-fucking luck she happened to find the graffiti I scratched into the wall using the screwdriver I hid up my sleeve from the Supper Club bouncers?
  3. What was she doing in the men’s room anyway?
  4. Or was I so lost in a sake fog I wandered into the ladies’?
  5. Could that have not been a urinal, but rather a French horn left by the unicyclist from the last juggling act?
  6. Where did Doc Kelly find a cheeseburger?

“What cheeseburger?” Doc Kelly licked his fingers. “You’re talking to yourself again.”

Not only that, but fifteen minutes had passed unaccounted for, which typically only happens when I am drinking French Canadian Canadien beer, which is why I don’t do Montreal or at least I cannot account for ever having done Montreal. In this particular unaccounted fifteen minute span, a new sushi roll was delivered, appearing innocuous despite its name Fist of God.

“Yeah, it is imitation crab.” Erasmus admitted.

“Err, krab. You mean ‘krab’.”

“That is what I said. But instead of your standard fare California roll, there is sprinkled on top a particle recently discovered inside an Illinois hadron collider.”

Cue Doc Kelly to sing the chorus of a Dave Matthews song, “Crash… into me, bay-be…

Erasmus ignored Doc and began an interrogation of my intent, “What is your obsession with the Lake Osceola Cocktail & Leisure Society’s involvement in the Majestic Tower?”

Majesty Tower north of Orlando

Majesty Tower north of Orlando

“First, I have spoken to psychics in Cassadaga who believe the Eye-Sore of I-4, your Majestic Tower, is built on powerful magnetic lay-line vortex for the purpose of pulling in a lot of bad vibe energy. Perhaps the Eye-Sore was never intended to be occupied, perhaps it is meant as a portal to whichever dark shit the Orlando Illuminati is trying to summon.”

“Illuminati and bad vibes?” Erasmus smirked. “Groovy, man.”

“Second, the dishwashers of the Yakisoba Supper Club are playing a Cantonese dice game in the alley by the dumpster. This is supposed to be a Nipponese joint, why are the staff playing a Cantonese game and smoking cheap Chinese cigarettes, unless, of course, they are a part of the International Chinese Waiter Union*.”

“Which you believe to be the most entrenched intelligence network in the world.” Erasmus rolled his eyes without ever moving them. Maybe the earth just revolved around his pupils, but there was an eye-roll in there somewhere. You see, dear reader, he was familiar with my ICWU rants.

“Exactly. Chinese restaurants, and by extension waiters, are everywhere. And if the Orlando Illuminati is in cahoots with the ICWU*…”

“You’ve been packing too much jimson weed in your pipe.” Erasmus interrupted.

@ which Doc Kelly piped-up, “You know what jimson weed is good for?”

“If the Orlando Illuminati is in cahoots with the International Chinese Waiter Union*, we could be at the epicenter of a global CIA plot to fund Black Ops through distribution of heroin.”

“Which you infer because the dish boy is smoking cheap imported cigarettes…” Erasmus spake cynically.

“Jimson weed, also known as Devil’s cucumber or moon flower or Datura in India or Toloache in Mexico, is great in salsa…”

The Eye-Sore of I-4. Ground was broken in 2001. This picture is current as of 2015.

The Eye-Sore of I-4. Ground was broken in 2001. This picture was taken by Vic January 2015.

“Third.” I continued. “The Christian Right in town have blamed the failure of the Majesty Tower on a New World Order conspiracy to bankrupt the local Born-Again movement. The Eye-Sore was supposed to be the headquarters of a new evangelist cable network instead of a hollow monolith built to pagan gods…”

“Or guacamole, I mean, within limits. Jimson weed is toxic in doses too large.”

“So you are chasing the paranoid beliefs of psychics and Bible-Thumpers while interpreting the playing of Chinese craps by Japanese dishwashers smoking ChiCom cigs as some great plot by the Orlando Chamber of Commerce to deal heroin?”

“Or mixed drinks, the Brits in Bombay would garnish datura in their gin & lime-juice rickshaws…”

“Well, yes.” I affirmed. “I mean, it is a working theory.”

And suddenly, the clock struck midnight and we all turned to pumpkins.

*NOTE: the International Chinese Waiter Union intelligence network is the paranoid supposition of the late great Kyril Bonfiglioli, who I believe was onto something.

Stop immediately showing the movie of terrorism which can break the regional peace and cause the War

Guardians of Peace, self-admitted attackers of Sony’s privates

In the season of miracles, we have ourselves a shit-storm spectacle. Sony was hacked and malicious threats were made, this much is true, but these acts alone are not “terrorism” as they are described in international headlines. Hacking and blackmail are criminal, sure, but the threat of violence is not violence. As a part of their continual shit-losing, Sony decided not to premier The Interview over pressure from theaters after the obscure threats of the menacing “Guardians of Peace”. Obama called Sony’s overreaction “a mistake” and there is little reason not to agree with the President. Fortunately, the Federal Bureau of Investigation is here to save the day and reveal the great villain behind the attack: North Korea.

Which is pretty-much bullshit based off of too many assumptions (in my opinion).

North Korea is the lowest hanging fruit for the FBI to pluck, peel & feed the media hype-hysteria machine. Could North Korea’s secret cyber-assault squad, the ominous sounding “Bureau 121”, be behind the attack against Sony? Maybe. As of today, however, there is no smoking gun, no evidence strong enough to prove in court.

If somebody is able to intimidate folks out of releasing a satirical movie, imagine what they will start doing when they see a documentary they don’t like or news reports they don’t like?

– President Obama in reaction to Sony cancelling premier of The Interview.

Yes, there is motive: North Korea was pissed at Sony for making a movie lampooning their ultimate leader. Perhaps there are the means: a North Korean defector says Bureau 121’s computer ninjas are Legion and spread across the globe. The method was simple enough: the tools involved in the hacking were easily found and only required enough time & bodies to pull-off the cyber-attack against Sony’s average-at-best corporate security. So yes, North Korea could have done it. I still disbelieve they did.

TO: Sony FROM: GoP

TO: Sony
FROM: GoP

Let us look at the FBI’s reasons for blaming North Korea (pulled from the FBI website):

FBI Point 1Technical analysis of the data deletion malware used in this attack revealed links to other malware that the FBI knows North Korean actors previously developed. For example, there were similarities in specific lines of code, encryption algorithms, data deletion methods, and compromised networks.

Vic Counterpoint – “Similarities”? This hack was plain vanilla, using basic tools; more muscle than style points. There was nothing trademark about it, therefore, similarities would be expected.

FBI Point 2The FBI also observed significant overlap between the infrastructure used in this attack and other malicious cyber activity the U.S. government has previously linked directly to North Korea. For example, the FBI discovered that several Internet protocol (IP) addresses associated with known North Korean infrastructure communicated with IP addresses that were hardcoded into the data deletion malware used in this attack.

Vic Counterpoint – The former Anonymous hacker Sabu told CBS News “It doesn’t tell me much. I’ve seen Russian hackers pretending to be Indian. I’ve seen Ukrainian hackers pretending to be Peruvian. There’s hackers that pretend they’re little girls. They do this for misinformation, disinformation, covering their tracks.” Again, Sabu shows all we have is circumstantial evidence.

FBI Point 3 – Separately, the tools used in the SPE attack have similarities to a cyber -attack in March of last year against South Korean banks and media outlets, which was carried out by North Korea.

Vic Counterpoint – Many cybersecurity experts still doubt North Korea pulled off the “Dark Seoul” attacks. This statement by the FBI is a bit too matter-of-fact.

Now the question: If not North Korea, then Who?

Big Red’s Blue Army? Would China have a beef to pick with Sony?

We do know that China already has the means for cyber-mayhem. Their rather playfully named UNIT 61398 (aka “Blue Army”) is a surly bunch who we believe have already cracked U.S. Security and Energy Infrastructure Defenses. The only reason why China hasn’t laid waste to our power grid just like Guardians of Peace sent tech giant Sony into the Stone Age is that we Americans owe China vast sums in debt and a broken borrower pays no debts. See? China is an incredible threat, but also has an economy dependence on the current global economic structure. In summation: peace because reasons.

Back to the matter at hand – China could be behind Guardians of Peace. China may have attacked as a nice exercise to flex their muscle… Or perhaps China was just protecting the reputation of their idiot little brother up in Pyongyang by laying waste to Sony and making casual threats of 9/11-style retribution if the movie plays in American theaters?

It is valid, though I still consider it unlikely. My money is on…

A Nefarious Hacker Organization like Lulz Sec.

Unless Guardians of Peace were sponsored by studios rivaling Sony for Christmas movie dollars, whoever is behind the attacks has no apparent profit motive. If you toss out the vengeful defense of proud North Koreans endeared to their ultimate leader, what other motivation could there be?

Shits & Giggles.

Pure, simple: shits, giggles.

Of course, North Korea, those scheming cunts... yes, it must be them!

Of course, North Korea, those scheming cunts… yes, it must be them!

Lulz Sec is/was the spin-off hacker group who left Anonymous when the larger hackavist community became too moralistic. Lulz Sec was the agent of chaos (“lulz” is plural for “lol”, FYI) who got their kicks off of a schadenfreudian love for the misery of others. Even if Lulz Sec has since been rounded up by the Feds and shut-down, the survivors and their kind are out there inciting mayhem. They likely always will be.

But then why Sony? You’d think such comedians wouldn’t be so viciously opposed to a satire like The Interview. Could it be distaste for James Franco? Understandable, but to this extent?

“You’re reading into it too much.” Yorick, my Oregon-based crypto-currency banker, informed me. “The hackers have a history of hating Sony. Sony was aggressive towards torrents and people unlocking/modding their PlayStations. Basically, Sony led the crusade in prosecuting those who were trying to transform the web from capitalist system into a community of free data sharing. The backlash against Sony saw the aggressor, Guardians of Peace, creating a hoax as a means to flex their muscle and exact revenge. They couldn’t have imagined it going this well.  What they had in the movie, this particular movie, was part of the spectacle to shift blame to Korea. Nothing personal with Kim Jong-un or James Franco.”

“North Korea was setup as a patsy?”

“Yes.” Yorick confirmed. “North Korea is a willing patsy. You don’t think they love all this free press demonstrating their might? This is exactly what North Korea always wanted, a little bit of street cred, and they are getting it indirectly through the actions of a hacker group. Read me back the threat the Guardians put out…”

’Stop immediately showing the movie of terrorism which can break the regional peace and cause the War…You, Sony & FBI, cannot find us. We are perfect as much. The destiny of Sony is totally up to the wise reaction & measure of Sony’” I stopped reading due to Yorick’s laughter.

“Don’t you think there must be someone in Pyongyang’s diplomacy department who has a better handle of the English language? Even Little Kim, undisputed leader according to all his murdered uncles, was schooled in Switzerland and must have a better handle of English than this.” Yorick said.

“You think the poorly written threat is part of the joke.”

“This is the satire. These chaos-fueled hackers in their Silicone Valley condo or their mother’s basement are nihilists with a taste for sarcasm. Of course they are going to attack their great enemy, Sony, and make a joke out North Korea defending itself from a joke. History, if you give it a chance, is rather absurd and this… it is like the ouroboros, where the snake of absurdity eats its own tail.”

One Last Note Before I Go: Follow the Money

As with any conspiracy, I would advise ‘follow the money’. If there are is no money, look for the money counters…

Lost in the melee, at least until my Volleyball Coach reminded me, is the fact Sony was not the only company attacked in the Guardians of Peace hack. Deloitte, one of the ‘Big Four’ accounting firms in the United States was likewise targeted with much of their stolen data made public. How does this fit into the attack?

Deloitte once cooked the books (perhaps legally, I am not up to snuff with tax code) for Sony in the past, so this may simply be an extension of the Guardian war on Sony. Deloitte also offers a digital threat intelligence service (a lot of good this did them) which may sweeten the pie for the barbarians at the gate looking to strike a blow against those defending the wall.

Or, perhaps, this entire Sony venture is a smokescreen. Could the Sony hack be a smoke & mirrors spectacle designed to throw attention off the true heist: the seizure of relevant mystery data kept within Deloitte’s hyper-secured vaults. Could it be there exists an organization (Guardians of Peace?) cunning and determined enough to attack a corporation (Sony) and frame a nation (North Korea) based on a satirical movie (The Interview) all in an attempt to sneak off with valuable files stolen from a separate party (Deloitte)?

If so, is the FBI completely clueless by pointing the finger at North Korea? Or, are they shrewd enough to blame North Korea so the evil geniuses at Guardians of Peace think their secrets are safe, lulling them into a peaceful slumber as a crack squad of FBI storm troopers quietly sneak-up on the Guardians of Peace subterranean Himalaya headquarters…

Regardless, the real secret lies in what was stolen – not from Sony – but from the bean counters at Deloitte. Follow this trail and you may find the truth.

UPDATE 1 HOUR After Original Publication

Yorick (Vic’s crypto-currency banker): Did we speak about this? I was telling a friend the same things last night about English. Did you see this image? This was featured in one of the original articles, though you do not see mentioning of this image lately. It was sent to Sony in November after the hacks were first made public.

hacked by #gop

Yorick: Why would North Koreans include this silly image? It is actually hilarious if you look closely. I think you’re right that the FBI is just going with the obvious scape goat to save face and put the real culprit at ease.

Vic: After plunging into the depths of the DEEP WEB, I have corroborated this image with the most uncanny of news media, USAToday.

December 7th, 1941

USS Arizona in Pearl Harbor

USS Arizona in Pearl Harbor

The rising dawn over Pearl Harbor saw Japanese imperial planes with bright red meatballs painted on their wings. In an attack against the U.S. Navy stationed in Hawaii, the Japanese damaged a dozen ships, destroyed hundreds of aircraft and took the lives of thousands of Americans. By the following day, the United States declared war on the Empire of Japan, formally entering World War II. This is what is known. What is assumed is that the attack was a complete surprise. What is alternatively suggested is the attack was allowed to occur without warning by President Franklin Delano Roosevelt. There is no smoking gun to this conspiracy theory, but there exists collaborative (if not coincidental) evidence to the theory and, just as importantly, a motive.

First, let me mention I like Frank. I like the whole lot of Roosevelts. FDR got America through a rough patch of history and while he might be overrated as one of the greatest presidents, he certainly doesn’t deserve to be labeled a galactic dick like the genocidal maniac Andy Jackson or the king-slayer Lyndon B Johnson. If FDR did have advance-knowledge of the surprise attack and allowed it to happen, I can understand why (I mean, in a Machiavellian evil genius kind of way)…

FDR and Churchill: schemers

FDR and Churchill: schemers

In 1941, the American public was staunchly against entering another world war. Multiple generations of families were impacted by the first war in Europe, a war the United States emerged from with very few spoils (other than that Gatsby fellow who did fairly well for himself). American foreign policy was decidedly isolationism. Many Americans, albeit without knowing the full extent of the atrocities occurring, were even sympathetic for the Germans. Why do we care if Germany invades England? FDR saw it differently. Whether it was ideals of freedom or financial interest or a third cousin, FDR was in cahoots with Churchill to enter the Second World War, all he needed was a catalyst drastic enough for the American people to commit. If FDR knew about Japan’s plans to attack Pearl Harbor ahead of time, would he have done anything to stop it?

Over seventy years later, we live in the Age of Misinformation, where the truth is shrouded within the farcical cloud of our democratized internet. Somewhere such truths may exist, but they do so within a dark, dank, glory hole hidden along a labyrinth of deceit and pop-up banners. As a navigator within these conspiracy channels, I dance with the daemons of unplumbed space, so you, dear reader, do not have to. I am not sure if I have found the glory hole of truth, but it is certainly dark and dank in here. What follows are the most curious bits of conspiracy rants I extracted from the entangled muck of the Deep Web. Without further ado:

Pearl Harbor Echoes of Conspiracy

  1. Cryptographer’s Delight

While there were battles of bulges and midways, the war behind the war involved the greatest mathematicians matching wits in attempt to decode their opposition’s signals. Alan Turing was at Bletchley Park attempting to decode Germany’s Enigma and once riddle was solved, keeping this fact hidden from the Nazis. Similarly, the American Army and Navy had their own signal corps attempting to break codes (with the help of the Dutch and the Brits) of the Japanese. Most of the Japanese codes in 1941 had been cracked, which should have allowed the Americans to know exactly what the Japanese fleet was up to. For example, a message encrypted by the Japanese diplomatic code “Purple” was interpreted on 12/6, informing American Intelligence Japan was about to end diplomatic relations. Perhaps the signals American Intel was intercepting were too vague to stop Pearl Harbor, but by 1943, the crypto-analysts were able to decode the travel itinerary of Admiral Yamamato, otherwise known as the tactician who planned the Pearl Harbor attack. What followed was Operation Vengeance where the Army’s Air Force committed an act of political assassination and shot down the Japanese Admiral’s plan.

  1. Congressman Dies’s Map

Congressman Martin Dies revealed in 1963 in the year leading up to Pearl Harbor, his “Un-American Activities Committee” uncovered a map while investigating Japanese espionage activities. This map was from the Japanese Imperial Military Intelligence Department and clearly illustrated “precise information of the proposed attack” on Pearl Harbor. Dies called Secretary of State Cordell Hull who promptly told Dies to shut the hell up. Diplomacy was too delicate at that point to introduce such evidence. Still, Hull called FDR and an hour later called Dies back to state all parties agreed the map should remain out of sight as a matter of national defense, i.e. just keep shutting the hell up.

  1. The McCollum Memo

Lieutenant Commander McCollum was the director of Navy Intelligence for the Far East and was responsible for regurgitating code intercepts back to President FDR. In 1940, he wrote a memo about countering the military rise of Japan in which he suggested provoking the dragon into war. One of the more notable lines from McCollum’s memorandum is, “If by these means Japan could be led to commit an overt act of war, so much the better.”

  1. Mysteries of the Sunk Dutch Sub

The Dutch Submarine, HNLMS K XVII was sailing happily out of the Gulf of Siam in 1941 when it struck a Japanese mine and sank, killing all 36 men aboard. Or so the official story goes. In 1980, an alleged British Spy, Christopher Creighton, claims he was a part of a British mission to sink the sub and silence the men on board, per Churchill orders. Keep in mind: the Dutch were actually our Allies (though I can’t imagine we held a lot of trust for the Netherlands due to Germanic proximity and my own personal distaste for Hollandaise). Why would the Brits sink an Allied Dutch submarine? Here is Creighton’s story… the HNLMS K XVII encountered the Japanese fleet steaming its way towards Pearl Harbor and notified their superiors of such nefarious undertakings. This Dutch message was then forwarded to or intercepted by the British. Back in England, Winnie Churchill had put all of his chips on a successful Japanese raid on Pearl Harbor, which would bring America into the war and save Mother England. Churchill could not afford to allow the Dutch to sound the alarm that the Japanese were coming. So the Brits sank the Dutch.

ORLAKA, Fla

The town of Sanlando was founded by a random mountebank snake-oil sapper a bygone era ago as the perfect crossroads between Orlando and Sanford where commerce over hootch, cattle and enslaved Chinese rail workers could commence. Neighboring Orlaka was similarly plotted out, a township to benefit off its central position between the budding fantasyland of Orlando and the feral rurality of Apopka. Today Orlaka sits as an incorporated stretch of parking lots and abandoned outlet stores where naked mannequins gaze through the foggy windows as persistent voyeurs long after the rigor mortis set in. Bayou St Bas Trailer Park lies under the outermost armpit of Orlaka and I, Vic Neverman, hide within the densest fringe of the trailer park. Proximity to Orlaka is what brought me to Orlaka’s only voting precinct, housed in Two-Tone’s Bait & Tackle, a veritable den of rabid opossum masquerading as a country-store gas station.

Thusly, I voted.

Two-Tone’s Bait & Tackle hosts the closest deli counter to Bayou St Bas Trailer Park where all of yesterday’s leftovers have been refried and put on display with the pride of a finely-aged Parisian whore stoned into nostalgic oblivion via opiate (more or less). The tuna-melt was the special of the day. Within Two-Tone’s Bait & Tackle there was a clothing aisle featuring camouflaged t-shirts with “Merika!” written in red, white, etc., and an accessory section featuring reader’s digest Bibles, gator claw key-chains and ammunition belts. Two-Tone, (adequately named, perhaps for the liver spots that blight his bald gourde of a head), oversaw the cashier counter beneath towering displays of energy elixirs and tiger penis erectile dysfunction miracle cures. In the back of the store, Two-Tone was sensible enough to take out a bed sheet (perhaps it was once white?)(featuring centrally located eye-holes presumably used as a Halloween costume or as the applicable outerwear for the Grand Dragon’s latest potluck cross-burning) which he draped over the rear wall of VHS pornography to conceal the collection from the good citizens of Orlaka and Bayou Saint Basil doing their civic duty by waiting in line and breathing-in the fumes of each of the others in order to cast their vote.

On the ballot for this mid-term 2014 election was the Amendment 2 option for Medicinal Marijuana. While I am not the foremost protagonist for the legalization of weed, I am certainly in favor of decriminalization. I think it should be at least moderately inconvenient for the youth of America to get weed, but I certainly do not think we should be locking people in prison for possession unless their intent is to barter to Kindergarteners in exchange for milk money. Amendment 2, however, is not the recreational free-for-all already approved by Colorado, Washington and most recently Oregon. Amendment 2 is about providing an alternative medicine to assist the legitimately pained. The Amendment needed 60% of the vote to pass and it fell short by 3 points.

If you could see my fellow civilians in line on voting day, you would wonder why they would think an alternative to current medicine was unnecessary. Every one of them appeared plagued with some sort of vicious ailment they sneezed haphazardly without the self-awareness to blow their excretion into an Amerika! handkerchief. Other than Two-Tone’s scurvied liver spots, there were cases of dengue fever, daycare crud, a Venezuelan dentist who caught myxomatosis from his pet rabbits, and most everyone else appeared obese and/or suffering dropsy. Also in line, but hiding from me behind a stand of naked mermaid postcards, was silver-mane Samson, who owed me $40 and whose useless (DUI-suspended) driver’s license I was holding captive until he paid me back. Samson, half-assed, barefoot, ex-con drug dealer he was, could use the medicinal marijuana to help the chronic back pain he’s suffered since dozens of his vertebrae were turned to dust after multiple falls during his cat-burglary days. How he was voting as a convict without a driver’s license leads me to guess some sort of fraud was at hand, but either way he was likely voting against medicinal marijuana (despite his best interests) because of the immediate profit he makes at the first of the month selling his prescribed painkillers to fellow members of his Alcoholics Anonymous group. Samson and 43% of my fellow Floridians decided they didn’t want medicinal marijuana, just enough to toss out the amendment.

Why the hate for medicinal marijuana?

Disregard the argument of whether marijuana is useful or not as a healthcare tool for the sake of this discussion. What I want to focus on is not the potential benefit, but who, exactly, is fighting against the legalization of medicinal marijuana.

The primary anti-MJ lobby group is Drug Free America. Why they think that marijuana is worse than the prescribed painkillers handed out like candy corn at a going-out-of-business Halloween emporium is beyond me. I know plenty of Oxy dependents who have committed suicide, yet if you check-in on all my simple stoner pals, they are humming along nicely. For fuck’s sake, take my dear Aunty Wacko* who’s been addicted to Big Pharma handouts for the last few decades, leaving her upriver and institutionalized, she could use more cannabis in her life… anything that could ease the pain and get her off of Big Pharma’s anti-crazy crazy pills.

*It should be noted my generation of cousins in the Appalachian Douglas Clan is the first to not have a member committed to some asylum or another, which is a pattern that has occurred ever since our ancestors devised a scheme to stack up rocks at Stonehenge. According to my kin, good money is on Vic Neverman being the first of the GenX ilk in the nuthouse though my millenialist 2nd and 3rd cousins have plenty to offer.

Drug Free America is the same as any other lobbyist group – they are a not-for-profit agency taking handouts to get their executives nice payouts. The cute and fluffy name is a façade. They are, as an organization, utter bullshit. Any movement working against drugs, yet working in favor of Big Pharma’s pain prescriptions, is practicing chicanery at its worst.

Who is funding Drug Free Merika! in their anti-marijuana efforts?

Follow the money.

Who doesn’t want decriminalization of Marijuana (an eventual stepping stone from Amendment 2, antagonists say)? The privatized prison system which needs prisons at 95% occupancy to remain profitable. Who doesn’t want the legalization of recreational Marijuana (an eventual stepping stone from Amendment 2, antagonists say)? Big fucking Tobacco, who doesn’t want to lose ground to the cannabis cigareteers. Who doesn’t want the legalization of Medicinal Marijuana (which actually applies to Amendment 2)? Big Pharma. Big fucking chicken Pharma with a side of spaghetti.

Following the money… things get interesting.

Sheldon Adelson, the casino magnate from Las Vegas has invested some 5.5 million bucks in the fight against medicinal marijuana in Florida. Why the fuck? Reasons. But what reasons? Sheldon Adelson has not been investing money in other marijuana legislation around the country (medicinal marijuana is legal in 23 states, last I counted). Why now fight it in Florida? Fuck does Sheldon care?

I decided to take this question to my step-father’s liquor cabinet.

MOSQUITO SHORES, Fla

It took the moon a long draw on night before it descended on the Gulf of Mexico. From a luxurious condominium balcony looking indefinitely west towards Cozumel, Galveston, or a truck-stop taco stand in-between, I sniffed a snifter of 10 year Armagnac mixed with Benedictine & Brandy. It was like drinking out of a thimble, but the concoction did its job discouraging the repulsion rising up my gullet at the current state of the union. Beside me, working his own thimble beneath his Victorian mustache was Fire Chief Wayne**, the former fireman from Miami who made substantial wealth in hustling land developers and socio-snobs at South Florida country clubs. After a career of under-handed backhands on the court, swindly wedges on the greens and duplicitous English on the billiard tables, Fire Chief Wayne decided to retire on the sleepy west-side of Florida, but not too sleepy to keep him from dipping his toes into the game.

**Fire Chief Wayne married the NeverMum, which is why he bothers with mangrove jetsam like Vic Neverman when the likes of me washes up on his doorstep with many a thirst.

“You want to know why Adelson is putting money into Florida?” My wizened step-dad (“call me ‘Chief’”) assumed correctly. “Don’t be short-sighted. 2014 is not the endgame. The republicans in the state legislature are against Amendment 2, but they are always cutting Mary’s budget to pay Paul to buy enough cheap beer to last the weekend. Tallahassee bureaucrats are nothing more than a bunch of criminal law majors who failed the bar exam and have just enough trust fund left to start a campaign based on their father’s name. If they are going to fight against Medicinal Marijuana, they are going to need Adelson’s checkbook.”

“Why is Sheldon Adelson against medicinal marijuana here when he has ignored this fight in other states?”

“Again, you are being short-sighted.” My wizened step-dad Chief corrected me. “This isn’t about 2014, it is about future back scratching.”

“So…” the pupil conjectured. “You scratch my back now, I scratch your back later… but what is later?”

“Slot machines.” Fire Chief Wayne swallowed the rest of his thimble. “Adelson is a Vegas Casino developer. He is trying to get his mitts on Florida without relying on Native Americans selling reservation rights. Adelson wants to put a casino in every cruise ship port, along International Drive in Orlando, at the Daytona Speedway. Adelson wants to expand his Vegas reach to Florida.”

The slot machines in my head all went cherry as the obvious was presented to me. Why would a casino developer invest in an anti-marijuana fight? To earn enough back-scratching favors to propose legislature in the next round of political blackjack to expand his casino empire.

God bless Merika!

Fire Chief Wayne wasn’t done. “It doesn’t end there, Vic. Your mother doesn’t want me to get your indigestion all fired up, but I think you ought to know exactly what is happening. When we visited your mother’s infirm sister…”

“Aunty Wacko?” I inquired, eyes moistening.

“Yes, just the one.” Chief admitted. “We were casually discussing with her this election so she might be aware of the stakes. We were not the first to speak to her. Apparently, there are conservative groups visiting nursing homes to convince the feeble-minded that ‘Reefer Madness’ is upon us and unless they stand-up to the Amendment 2 menace, all of their sons and grandsons are going to waste away in a cloud of cannabis.”

“But that is nonsense.” I said.

“Just nonsensical enough for your mother’s sister to believe.” Fire Chief Wayne said. “It took us half an hour to convince her it was just propaganda, but by then it was too late as she woke the next morning re-brainwashed. The propagandists had burned an idea into her head. Standard Cold War era reprogramming, just this time with the certifiably insane who just so happened to still have the right to vote.”

I wish this were an exaggeration, but it is not. Sheldon Adelson, in his attempt to impale Florida with slot machines, has gone so far as to establish a grassroots campaign to re-educate the infirm within nursing homes in order to sway them to his cause. If keeping a potentially valid medicine away from the sickened is not amoral enough, what sort of depths must these bastards sink in order to brainwash the ill to vote against a treatment that might just help them?

Needless to say, the indigestion has been ignited. I’m fucking pissed.

Egypt is in the process of purging itself of all things Qatari. It is a part of a reactionary movement against the former ruling party – the Muslim Brotherhood, an Islamic quasi-political organization financed by the ultra-conservative Qatari government. The Muslim Brotherhood came to power in Cairo in the aftermath of the cluster fuckage initiated by the Arab Spring and they were just as quickly ushered out courtesy of military coup. As a result of the anti-Qatar knee jerk, Egypt has unjustly imprisoned three al-Jazeera journalists on unfounded allegations (evidence = nil) of fomenting dissent and chaos as a means to usher in the right-wing government. Al-Jazeera, of course, is a Qatari news network. Call it guilt by association. The so-called “International Community” is in uproar about the Egyptian vendetta against the press, yet there is barely a yawn from said community calling out Qatar for acting as a sticky-fingered meddler.

Al Jazeera calling for people to call for "regime change" in Egypt

Al Jazeera calling for people to call for “regime change” in Egypt

I am lion, hear me uproar. Rar. Fuck-off Qatar, says me.

My thought is thus: Just because Egypt is paranoid, it doesn’t mean Qatar wasn’t out to get them.

Qatar has long financed the Muslim Brotherhood, an organization designated as a terrorist organization by Russia, Syria, Egypt, Saudi Arabia and the United Arab Emirates (ironically, all but the neo-Soviets reside in Qatar’s neighborhood). Qatar has also financed the Muslim Brotherhood’s Palestinian love-child, Hamas. Wait… do let that sink in. Qatar finances Hamas. Not hummus, Hamas. Hamas is an off-shoot of the Muslim Brotherhood. Yes, the same Hamas martyring the Palestinian people in an effort to create anti-Israel propaganda. (S)He of sound judgment should be able to empathize with both the Israelis and the Palestinians in their conflict, but (s)he should also acknowledge Hamas is no better than a horde of drunken jet-ski douche sister-fuckers squatting on your lawn on Memorial Day weekend (the reference may be poorly understood outside the State of Florida, but it describes a quality of undeveloped ape Dante reserved for the seventh sub-basement of Hell).

Yet Qatar is ill-admonished for such dealings.

Except here. Fuck you, Qatar. I admonish you.

Qatar is right... there

Qatar is right… there

For those unaware, Qatar is a growth on the back of Saudi Arabia, jutting out into the Persian Gulf like a sandbar pissed on by Midas. Qatar, traditionally an economy based on pearl diving, is now the world’s richest country per capita (#ThanksOil). Their population of 1.8 million includes 1.5 million foreigners imported to further develop metro-monoliths in the 120 degree Fahrenheit desert. This is true – less than 300,000 Qataris exists within Qatar, the rest are migrant workers dying in droves due to the oppressive conditions. Fortunately, for Qatar, there are more workers where the departed came from.

Help Wanted: come to beautiful, majestic Qatar to build monoliths in the Desert

Help Wanted: come to beautiful, majestic Qatar to build monoliths in the Desert

Of course, do not forget Qatar bribed their way to owning the 2022 FIFA World Cup. Who did they beat out in the official voting to see who would host the World Cup? US. The US of A. So… great, let’s have a soccer tournament in the summer on a speck of land where God did not intend life to live. Much better than Orlando, right? Inshallah, right?

Why is there not more outrage over Qatar from the Western World? Our friends – the Sauds and the American-sponsored military of Egypt – hate the Qataris. Why does the United States sit idly by without gut-punching these rabble-rousing usurpers? Damn it, if anyone deserves a knee to the groin, it is Qatar. But nothing… crickets scratch their legs uninterrupted…

How? Why? WTF?

Well, because Qatar has money courtesy of oil and a few pearl necklaces. Qatar has the media influence courtesy of al-Jazeera. Qatar has soccer influence courtesy of owning FC Barcelona (and in the works to buy out Manchester United). These bits alone cannot influence the almighty corporation of America, but what can is this:

Most of those employed by Qatar are not actually Qatari

Most of those employed by Qatar are not actually Qatari

Qatar is no underdog just because there are only 278,013 Qataris living in Qatar. The small fish in the big pond just happens to have a helluva bite. What is Qatar after, really? They partner with the commonly known Western Devil (US), yet they are the most conservative Muslim nation outside of their neighboring Sauds (also friends with US). Do they want to indoctrinate their fundamental beliefs on the rest of the world via subliminal messaging during soccer futbol matches? Are they a state suffering Napoleon complex, eager to assert their relevance dominance on the rest of the world? Are they just a bunch of misunderstood Persian Gulfers crazy from the heat?

All of the above?

Magic 8-ball says ‘all signs point to yes’.

BAYOU SAINT BASIL, Fla

I’ve been framed.

Mystère de l’irrévérence absurde sounds sexier. Thanks Franks.

I’ve been framed and I am not sure by whom.

I was minding my own business, home at the abode within Bayou St Bas Trailer Park when the knock came at the tinfoil-reinforced door. In the moments minutes 3 quarters of an hour leading up to the knock I was focused on signing a greeting card. It (the card, not the knock) was a weak gesture of gratitude. The knock was rather profound. It (the card, not the knock) had a grandiose cover, like a wolf in a peacock’s skin making snow angels. There were two words on the front of the card I was about to sign: the first was “thank” in some bubbly optimistic font with a glittering red gold, the second was “you” similarly optimistic. I was perplexed as the innards of the card were blank. What could I compose within the card that could compete with the external grandiose cover? Especially when the card had already plagiarized my sentiment in entirety? At a loss, I wrote in sub-legible manic chicken-scratch, “Thanks again – Vic Neverman”, or so I began before my faulty pen dried up during the scribbling of my illustrious “V”. By the time I procured a second pen, hopeful it was virulently seeded with ink, the knock came at the door. I took off my socks and put on some boxers, reached for my tennis racket as the machete was at the other end of the room and I peeped through the peep hole (the hidden one, not the decoy front and center). Nothing but the great void waited beyond. I checked my security monitors, but there was no one currently present at my doorstep. <<<REWIND. Video record showed someone costumed in a postal delivery outfit had set a package down at the threshold. Bloody fucking hell, this was going to totally throw my Thursday off the rails. I opened the door and it was there I found the package addressed to Vic Neverman, 13 St Basil Park Parkway, Bayou Saint Basil, FL, 30000. Strangely, these markings were a reference exclusive to me and my residence.

Within the package: frames.

Package of Frames

Package of Frames

Three frames. Painted white and judging by the excessive padding, fairly expensive frames. Not picture frames, nay, these were portrait frames. These were the types of frames you stuffed impressionist water colors of your great aunt within as she was the only family member who could fill all that space. What was I going to do with frames like these? I am not a big picture sort of fellow.

I had been framed. Like, literally…

The-Deep-WebFortunately for the Post Modern Maya Apocalypse Paranoid, I have the Deep Web where I can anonymously chat with my closest allies without the awareness of the public domain. I posted a stream of encrypted nonsense to see what secrets I might learn…

Aquanaut248 (which is me, Vic Neverman):

I’ve been framed
Not sure by who
The box was addressed to me
There were 3 white frames inside
Huge frames, no invoice
I was just minding my own business
What the hell am I going to do with frames sent from California?
If I were a guy that framed things, I don’t think I would use white frames.
But I’m not a guy that frames things.
I looked at my credit card statement assuming this was some sort of drunken impulse to buy frames. No such luck.
What do frames go for on eBay?

PrinzessMomXoXo (Frieda Johnson)

Is that haiku?

QuuenCannabis49 (the NeverMum)

Hmmm especially white frames

VanDownByRiver00 (Miguel VanTrior)

This seems very suspicious… I would feel much better if they were a dark walnut or even a modern brushed nickel, but white frames?! I think someone is trying to send you a message, like a horses head in your bed perhaps?

Aquanaut248

I like the way you think Van. What could it all symbolize? Frame – perspective, contrast. White – purity, death, pearl necklaces. Three – Matrix movies?

BansheeBreath (the NeverSister)

You obviously dated a white girl for three months and left her feeling empty….

VanDownByRiver00

When’s the last time Aquanaut dated anyone for 3 months? Ok let’s break this down further. 3 white frames… California..No paperwork.. Remember remember the 5th of November…

BansheeBreath

What the Fawke does that have to do with anything?

VanDownByRiver00

It’s clearly, obviously, undeniably and plainly a reference to some foiled conspiracy plot that has unfolded before us here. Aqua, you have to do the 1 thing “they” would never expect, and hang the frames on your walls. Empty or not… Hang them!

BansheeBreath

…from a noose

VanDownByRiver00

Excellent!

PrinzessMomXoXo

No!! Use them in a photo session! Frame yourself in a photo and post it on Facebook for all to see!

Catfish2sday (The Commodore)

Be careful.

PRIndependez (Baron Boricua)

What are they made of? Perhaps there is something inside the frame. I say take a hammer to one of them and find out.

 

The next appropriate course of action was to consult my Puerto Rican Psychic Sidekick from Milwaukee.

“Maybe it was a prank?” She said, my PRPSM.

“An expensive prank and to what end? I lose nothing but wall space. Could it be some sort of message?”

“Yes.”

“From whom?”

"Them" accuses Vic's Puerto Rican psychic sidekick from Milwaukee

“Them” accuses Vic’s Puerto Rican psychic sidekick from Milwaukee

“’Them’.” My Puerto Rican psychic sidekick from Milwaukee said, framing the guilty party with her air quotes.

“Oh.” I admitted. “’They’ do think ‘They’ are cute with ‘Their’ symbolic gestures.”

“Yes ‘They’ do.”

“What do ‘They’ want?”

“What ‘They’ve’ always wanted: Everything. Literally. Everything.”

“Except these three frames. But what could it mean?”

“There were Seven Seals in John the Revelator’s Apocalypse. The first seal released the Four Horsemen. White frames are pale. How many of the Four Horsemen did not ride pale horses?”

“Three. Woah.”

“Right. Either it is that or some dude stole your identity and bought these for himself, forgetting he was not actually you.”

“Maybe a doppleganger?”

“Most likely.”

The search for Truth continues…

Framed: Vic

Framed: Vic