Posts Tagged ‘Femme Fatale’


From within the cemented bunker
of a suburban Denver parking garage
a curiously-clad and burly bearded paranoid perches as a slightly-more-animate gargoyle
spying out at the onslaught of precipitous precipitation.
The precipitation was less rain than
snow that just couldn’t keep its shit together;
it fell hard,
as hard as underachieving snow could fall betwixt the competing STOP lights.
The crossroad traffic signals twisted and swung in the wind
(a red-light dance-off),
its illumination reflecting off of the precipitation
until the rain shone like splattered neon blood.
All the while,
the un-stoned gargoyle watched from the concrete stairwell of the aforementioned parking garage.

Cherry Cricket of Suburban Denver

Cherry Cricket of Suburban Denver

Across the street existed a popular burger joint, the Cherry Cricket. I, the aforementioned gargoyle, arrived early to the parking lot to perch and wait… only to descend and arrive late to the agreed upon restaurant. I opened the external doors like a space cowboy on zero oxygen and a taste for whiskey (not just any whisky, you see, but that requiring the extra-e). Once within, Bubba at the door assumed Charlie’s Checkpoint position and asked for my papers. I showed someone’s identification and was immediately allowed entry into the innards of the establishment and once there I came across the vision of Her: sitting as a lotus flower amidst a swarm of buzzing menfolk seeking to pollinate. She brushed off their advances as her eyes summed the arithmetic that was I. Her maths figured me to be the remainder of Victor Neverman, a young lad she knew once in another life. Lily Kudzu smiled warm enough to break the Arctic and spur me forward.

Vic's fourth grade class photo (Lily Kudzu is top left with 'LK')

Vic’s fourth grade class photo (Lily Kudzu is top left with ‘LK’)

“You asshole.” She chimed in songbird harmony from her side of the booth we were escorted to. Her words alone could be read out of context if you did not witness the exhibit of mirth upon her face. “Upon minutes of friending you on Facebook, I am suddenly followed by vans with excessive antennae and I always get the TSA ‘upgrade’ at airport security. Who are you?”

“Do you not recognize me?” I asked, curious and waving off the waiter.

“I expected someone less bearded, half as tall, with no white hairs.”

“You may be perceiving time too relatively.” I explained, consciously reminding myself to stop pulling nervously at the edge of my beard. “I’ve grown some since last sighting and these hairs are black with some excusable silver. No white hairs.”

“Blame it on the fluorescent lighting.” Lily Kudzu shrugged away her apparent misconception.

She wasn’t exactly what I remembered from the fourth grade, either. She admitted that her 80’s hairdo was gone and she had chosen eye contacts over the windshield of spectacles that had rivaled my own in those days of lore. She no longer looked as I remembered. She looked… a Woman.

“I do realize…” I admitted with utmost candor, weighing my words within a dramatic pause. “You are a woman.”

“That’s a good start.” Lily Kudzu admitted hopefully, her worried brow in a furrow.

“Why did you agree to meet me?”

“Because…” Lily Kudzu began as any earnest mirage of vaporous memory forming in the desert of your mind would begin, at least, until, that mirage sights you attempting to eat a hamburger topped by sloppy green chilies. “Vic, you are really a messy eater.”

“I, um…” I stumbled with a verbal response as I rejected the messied burger in my hands. Pulling half-chomped onion and specks of green chilies from my beard, I admitted, “I may have bitten more than could be chewed.”

Lily Kudzu studied me with an expression that was attempting to be supportive in a “your poor thing” kind of way. As in, “you poor thing, you’ve been a feral child living off of corn cobs for thirteen years, of course you don’t know how to consume a sandwich without it turning into something resembling a finger-painting project.” Of course, I wasn’t a feral child who had lived off of corncobs, which left her sympathy even less deserved.

My sense of civility dented like a participant in a school bus derby, I put my burger aside and listened to Lily Kudzu’s story. There was a man from her recent past. He was a dick. They were married, then unmarried and then he really became a dick. This man, the ex-husband, was allegedly a purveyor of dental implants. Yes, “dental implants”, otherwise known as the trade of spook.

Lily Kudzu's ex-husband "sold dental implants" (wink, wink, nudge, nudge)

Lily Kudzu’s ex-husband “sold dental implants” (wink, wink, nudge, nudge)

While it might seem improbable to the mainstream flotsam, there are hidden keywords – cryptographic double-entendres, if you will (and will you must certainly should) – that may mean something benign to the virginal ears of the uninitiated and yet something entirely different to the well-spooked. “I sell dental implants” is practically synonymous with “I am more or less a domestic spy with an eyeglass pointed at your bathroom window, a camera behind your mirror, a bug on your phone, a GPS under your car and a drug-dog snouting your luggage.” If you are at a common dinner party choosing amongst the ill-catered charcuterie and some fellow with a misaligned smile introduces himself as a dealer in dental implants, you shall be well extolled should you douse his mustachioed face with whichever inebriant elixir you possess in hand for this scoundrel is surely a member of the Military Industrial Intelligence Complex and likely already intimately familiar with your web-browser search history.

Where was I before I was so misled by an interrupting thought? Ah yes, Lily had an ex-husband. I offered to Lily my unique set of skills to assist in sabotaging whatever life direction this X might have had in mind, but she wasn’t interested. She wasn’t vengeful, she was proud of the strength she found in his absence. Why… then, did she agree to meet me: this Gypsy drifter, rolling through town like a tumbleweed with green chilies hanging from its beard?

“Because I wanted to know if you really existed? I mean, it’s been so long, I wasn’t sure if I just accidentally dreamed you some night.” Lily Kudzu then inquired in turn, as she had patiently waited for this, her turn, “Why did you ask to see me?”

“Same reason.” I responded, eyes wide with admission. “I wanted to know if I really existed.”

Cricket burger with monster green chili

Cricket burger with monster green chili

CHERRY CRICKET RESTAURANT: burger joint with real burgers, a variety of toppings and a damn good draft selection. High energy & loud enough that others cannot eavesdrop on your conversation. A good den for conspirators. I give it 5 out of 5 NeverStars.


If you, dear reader, reside in some subterranean habitat and my blog is your only source of information on the air dwellers walking above you, then I have some BREAKING NEWS! Casey Anthony was acquitted of killing her 2 year old daughter! For the rest of my readership, this news is as old and soured as the half-and-half left in Casey’s trunk. Yes, the convicted liar (the only charges that stuck were lying to the police) will be released from prison in a few days. The story, now, shifts to the public outrage over Casey’s impending freedom. Especially here in Florida, where she and I, Vic Neverman, reside (not together, not hardly), here where the sun doesn’t burn as harsh as the vehemence on display by the local populace.

Nancy Wants Blood

It is rare to taste this sort of pure hate. Even Osama bin Laden never had such a rich, frothy, stew of animosity stirring in peoples guts, mainly because he was an outsider. He was supposed to be evil. Casey, though, she was one of us. She was a mother, she was young and attractive (in a tramp-next-door kind of way). She walked amongst us and she will again. Turn on the television and there is legal “expert” Nancy Grace so filled with spite she might eat her own face in search of blood. Social media is overblown with outrage at Casey going free. There are likely half a dozen lynch mobs milling around Orlando, just waiting to get their ropes around her neck.

And then there are others. Let us push aside the sadomasochists out there who have developed some perverse fetish for Casey, I don’t want to go there. Who I am referring to are the group of justice fundamentalists who somberly approve of the jury’s verdict. I happen to be one of these few.

Casey in Chains

I too was shocked by the “not guilty” verdict because I lacked faith that a jury of Casey’s peers could let their emotion stay out of their judgment. I approved of the verdict because it was the only choice the jurors should have made. While I will be the first to say I would bet my left kidney that Casey did have some sort of involvement in her daughter’s demise, the State of Florida failed to prove any such thing. You can gamble on gut faith, but you must judge on fact. If Casey was convicted, it would have been wrongly so. “Justice would have been served!” the pitch-forked mob cries out. No, justice would have been misled. You must bring a universal philosophy to this situation – in an entirely different scenario, imagine yourself being tried for a crime you didn’t commit and the jury convicted you because they intuited your guilt despite a lack of evidence – this is a failure of the system. While Casey probably deserves a stern penalty, we can’t prove that she does. Sadly, Nancy Grace continues to fan the flame of outrage to keep her post-trial television ratings high. I am tempted to use a word, perhaps the only in my lexicon I will not write in my blog, on both Nancy and Casey. They are a pair of cross-eyed c–ts if I ever did see one. More evil than these self-serving bitches will ever be, though, is the pure hate they generate.

Where the Vic Neverman involvement began was Sunday, the day of closing arguments. I had avoided the trial hysteria until that day, 7/3/2011. Sure, everyone had been abuzz for years about the local child-killing trollop-on-trial, but I had better things to focus on: Russians in the Arctic, Nazis in Antarctica, the NSA following me around in an ice cream truck, the Chinese at my gym, and figuring out which of my former flames was feeding information to the Mossad. Casey Anthony was soap operatic irrelevance… until I woke Sunday morning on a couch to my sinister government spook brother-in-law making eggs and flapjacks while the NeverSister turned on the court proceedings. I woke, I caffeinated, I watched, I became hooked…

Sunday night, the eve of our great country’s “independence”, I found myself at the local sports bar where the only person who saw through my disguise was the full figured, raspy-voiced, blonde beer-slinger I’ve come back time and again to see. With just baseball and tennis going on in the world, the sports bar actually resorted to putting on highlights of the Casey Anthony trial. It was in this environment of case analysis, chicken wings, and draught beer that an odd alliance was slowly forged between myself and some kindred spirited dudes. We became very vocal in our desire to see Casey acquitted (this being two days prior to the verdict being made) much to the dismay of the collected bar crowd around us. We three kings of judicial fundamentals banded together, moving to closer bar stools and allowing the kid of the group to buy all of the beer*. We laughed as we became known as the last defenders of Casey.

*A weird kid, somewhat, who was a chef at a local hotspot, missed his traveling girlfriend, tried to get me to buy Iraqi Denars on a get-rich-quick scheme, and later invited me to his home for perogies and more beer (I obviously declined).

With the kid paying the blonde beer-slinger to send Coloradan pale ale in my direction, the voice of Neverman slowly increased in volume as I appreciated pissing on the fires of mob mentality. “The prosecution has proven naught!” I claimed to the mob. “If Casey is convicted, my brother fellows and I shall work towards rescuing her and breaking her out of prison!” Oh my did this draw the ire of a “cougar” pack from the nearby country club community, much to the delight of one of the members of my fellowship who grinned as their costume jewelry jingled as it rang against their cranberry vodka tonics (good for the regularity, I am told) as they cried “foul”. But alas, we last defenders of Casey Anthony were stricken with a problem, “What to do with her once we rescue our dirty little damsel?”

I didn’t want her. One of my fellows claimed his wife simply would not have her sitting on her couch, let alone her toilet. The lad, the creepy one, he was game saying Casey and his girlfriend might become fast friends, but I didn’t trust him on this. “Nay, we need a better plan” says Vic, de facto leader of the last defenders of justice. Then the epiphany and from it a conspiracy develops…

The Honorable Judge Perry

“We shall not have to break her out of prison at all!” I announced amidst my pale ale’d brilliance. “The jury decides the guilt, but the judge, his honorabilitiness, he sets the sentence. What we need to do is talk to Perry and convince him to buy in.

“Instead of sending Casey to death or life in prison, we can talk Judge Perry into sentencing her to life of house arrest at his house!” I explained. “We can even turn it into a reality show. She’s off the street, but still able to live a fair existence. I am sure his honorability has HBO and a pool she can lounge out at. In return, Judge Perry has someone at home folding laundry, washing dishes, walking the dog, and we the tax payer wouldn’t have to pay a dime!”

“If I’m Perry…” One of my fellows hypothesized. “Sure as hell ain’t letting her walk my dog.”

Fortunately (or not) justice was served (or not) and Casey is going free. Out of the wok and into the deep fryer, if you ask me. Her best bet is to hire my firm, Cerberus Security International, to guard her and help her develop a new identity. Perhaps I shall write up a proposal.

To be continued…

Cogito Ergo Sum… what a crock of shit?

Mind control is likely as old as Adam in Eden, trying to figure out how to subdue his first wife Lilith, that wild minx, she, always wanting to be on top. One early use of hallucinates to assist in mind control would be with the Old Man of the Mountain of the Crusade era. The Old Man is responsible for the term ‘Assassin’ with his elite soldiers who were enlisted as children and given hashish (thus the hashashins, or how Sean Connery would say ‘assassins’) to help simulate the paradise of Allah. These boys would grow into fearless soldiers, fighting relentlessly to return to that state of ecstasy by slaying Latin knights of the Levant as well as fellow Muslims, depending on the Old Man’s agenda of the moment.

American experiments with drugs to assist with mass mind control would include CIA’s MK Ultra project as well as their Hippie movement (led by Timothy Leary amongst other agents, like the MI operative Jimi Hendrix).

What are some modern day examples of this most existentially provoking field?

– Rolling Stone revealed late last month that Lt General Caldwell used PsyOps in Afghanistan to help sway the opinions of visiting congressmen. John McCain, one of those mentioned in the article as a ‘target’ has since come out in defense of Caldwell, going so far as to admit he was skeptical anything so nefarious ever occurred. Or is that exactly what they programmed him to say?

In the long spectrum of mind-control efforts, the military’s PsyOps agenda is fairly tame. The catchy term ‘PsyOps’ is really the descendant of war propaganda of previous generations. In short, PsyOps is no more manipulative and subversive than advertisements on the television.

– Sirhan Sirhan, the Manchurian Candidate supposedly responsible for killing RFK went before a parole board recently where his lawyer not only argued his innocence, but claimed Sirhan Sirhan had been hypnotized during the assassination and has absolutely no recollection of the event taking place.

– Another possible ‘candidate’, via the ‘flower power’ movements of the 60s and 70s is none other than WikiLeaks founder Julian Assange, whose mother married into the Santiniketan Park Association. While Americans might be oblivious to this Australian cult, the SPA was also known as ‘The Great White Brotherhood’ and was run by yoga guru Anne Hamilton-Byrne. Anne collected children into her compound, dressed them similarly, dyed their hair blonde, and raised them in disturbing fashion, introducing them to LSD at an early age. The police eventually put an end to this cult in 1992, but by then the damage was done.

Could Julian Assange, ultra-blonde weirdo that he is, have undergone mind experiments in the 80s with Anne Hamilton-Byrne as some secret government experiment? And could he still be under the influence of some puppet-master?

– Lastly, there is me, Vic Neverman. What I think I think I think is that I have at least twice been intentionally put under the influence of hallucinates and perhaps hypnosis by parties seeking to undermine and control my behavior: once during my cereology studies in England by a femme fatale I failed to suspect and another time during my infiltration of the international corporate conglomeration known simply as Disney. These are stories for another time, but the point is there… Can I trust that my thoughts are truly my own?