Posts Tagged ‘Illuminati’

“What’s this?”
FullSizeRenderHalf-awake and semi-puzzled, I eye-balled the hand-held smart telephony device. Eye-balled in the singular – mind you, dear reader – not plural. Both mine eyes were too dehydrated from Wednesday’s rum to be open simultaneously, so instead I hopped from one eye to the next and back again, scanning the dark & ominous font rising out of the bright illumination of my hand-held smart telephony device as I (or at least the mortal vessel which encompassed I) rose from the coyote’s den in search of a pot to piss in and, subsequently, caffeine. My mind attempted to make sense of the flotsam, jetsam, et al, of loose thoughts at play in the ebbing tide of my morning as I studied the message aboard my hand-held smart telephony device.

“An email from the Illuminati? How unlikely for such an unassuming Thursday.”


Lo! from the Illuminati it was. Not only did the message claim so, but it was attempting to woo me out of the shadows and wed me to the Enlightenment. Yee Gods! what took THEM so long? Obviously, I was a prime candidate – having studied THEM, spied on THEM, spat in THEIR general direction for the majority of what life I have thus far undertook. Not only that, but I had the Renaissance qualities of a well-rounded dude: educated in finance, weathered from love, embalmed in booze, marinaded in the sweat enforced by a dozen jungles, steeped in classical verse of the rock gods, naïve to naught, everybody’s stranger, cynical to a fault and recognized as an expert navigator by the International Guild of Pizza Delivery – one would have thought the Masters of the Universe would have scoped me out by now. Perhaps my bloodline was too watered down for their liking and they have only reached now! in desperation?

Is DISNEY a platform for the Illuminati?

Is DISNEY a platform for the Illuminati?

Just go ahead and gaze upon the wonder of their encouraging solicitation yourself! (NOTE: the below is unadulterated and exists in its original form, for all its grammatically-challenged glory and truly received on an unassuming Thursday)

Do you want to be a member of Illuminati as a brotherhood that will make you rich and famous in the world and have power to control people in the high place in the worldwide .Are you a business man or woman,artist, political, musician, student, do you want to be rich, famous, powerful in life, join the Illuminati brotherhood cult today and get instant rich sum of. 2 million dollars in a week, and a free home.any where you choose to live in this world and also get 3000 U.S dollars monthly as a salary %u2026 BENEFITS GIVEN TO NEW MEMBERS WHO JOIN ILLUMINATI.1 A Cash Reward of USD $50,000 USD 2. A New Sleek Dream CAR valued at USD $30,000 USD 3.A Dream House bought in the country of your own choice 4. One Month holiday (fully paid) to your dream tourist destination. 5.One year Golf Membership package 6.A V.I.P treatment in all Airports in the World 7.A total Lifestyle change 8.Access to Bohemian Grove 9.Monthly payment of $1,000,000 USD into your bank account every month as a member 10.One Month booked Appointment with Top 5 world Leaders and Top 5 Celebrities in the World. If you are interested email mr james at or call +2348160153010

Yes, Mr James! Yes I want “power to control people in the high place in the worldwide” because that sounds fan-bloody-fucking-tastic! And tell me more about this “BENEFITS” numbero dos about the “new sleek dream car” valued at $30,000 – is it a Camry with a moon roof? Please tell me “yes”!

Hmm… you & me, dear reader: let us not fool ourselves. The Illuminati does not recruit. Not from amongst us proles, us common torch & pitchfork peasantry. The Illuminati indoctrinates from within. My father, Old Neverman, was not landholding elite. He was U.S. Marine spawned riffraff. And Mum’s old clan had plenty of land in the 1950s, but Disney bought it out from under them for cents on the buck to build something near Orlando, not sure what. I have Gypsy, Cherokee, Irish, Scotch and rum in my veins, not Rockefeller, Rothschild, Reptilian, Windsor or Merovingian. How about you, dear reader? I suspect the Illuminati does not recruit the likes of us. Should THEY find a worthwhile talent outside THEIR genepool, THEY merely mercilessly bribe, extort, kidnap, brainwash, torture or clone a DNA replica of said worthwhile talent. THEY’d never let someone as ill-bred and undereducated as us into their incestuous genepool. I mean, no offense, dear reader…

Truth is: this email is a con.

There once was a Bavarian Illuminati who were anti-religionists and pro-reason, yet were run out of Munich by the powers that then were. Ambrose Bierce, the great American author of “The Devil’s Dictionary” in the 1880s, defined Illuminati as “A sect of Spanish heretics of the latter part of the 16th century; so called because they were light weights – cunctationes illuminati”. In today’s media, “Illuminati” is a broad term used to describe any secret power-brokers – be they regal, capitalist elites, Freemasons, leftists, Lebron James, etc. In recent years, there has been a boon of exposure to the Illuminati through art. I once discussed at great length the use of Illuminati symbolism in contemporary music: in the post-9/11 world, the new generation of Millennial is being brought up on uncertainty and they crave any sort of power structure – even if it is malevolent. Artists, such as Kanye West, Beyonce and Katy Perry, have catered to this desire, declaring themselves – subtly or not – to be the new Illuminati. Wanting to believe in Order over Chaos, the Millennial Generation has bought in, entirely.

The sharks have tasted blood…

Mr. James is a con-man. If you, dear reader, receive the same message I did, I advise you do not respond. Giggle if it is in your nature, chuckle otherwise. Move along.

Yes, but what if you went down the rabbit hole? Is the curiosity tearing at your loins as it oft does mine? Rejoice! dear reader for I have dove into said rabbit hole so you do not have to. What am I, if not a bad man to give good advice? Here it is: don’t go there. It’s dank and smells of closets best unopened.

After initial contact with Mr. James, you could expect a few rounds of email correspondence as he builds up your trust in his scam. It will be apparent Mr. James’s first language is not English as you read his prose, but then this is about world elitism, not merry-old England – right? So you shrug off his improper punctuation and references to the wrong sex when improperly addressing you. Then comes the first questionnaire.

A con-man is patient. Mr. James is not going to ask for your bank account information right off the bat like some Nigerian Prince. No, Mr. James is going to build a rapport. He is going to engage in “phishing” and “social engineering” to stick his greasy fingers down your gullet before he turns you inside-out looking for loose change.

The questionnaire will ask innocent enough things, such as:

  • Do you believe in capital punishment, yes or no?
  • Do you believe Eugenics is the best path towards population control, yes or no?
  • On a scale of 1 – 10, how religious are you with 1 being atheist and 10 being lemming?
  • On a scale of 1 – 10, how amoral are you with 1 being polite and 10 being bestial?
  • Would you be sexually aroused by engaging in congress with a partner who is masked, yes or no?

illuminatiAll fine and good. A week after responding, an email will congratulate you on the Illuminati’s increased interest in bringing you into the fold. Not only are THEY intrigued by you, but you are a candidate to be an apprentice initiated into the Sacred Order of the Dragon. Damn Skippy. The next round of questioning is less about your disposition and more about your preferences.

The second questionnaire will inquire:

  • Any allergens to shellfish or penicillin?
  • Any aversion to lying with an unclean woman?
  • Any aversion to lying with an unclean man?
  • What sort of preference might you have for a partner: Red, Brunette, Blonde? (please prioritize as red-headed virgins are hard to come by)
  • On a scale of 1 – 10, what is your age preference in a partner with 1 being under and 10 being elder?
  • What hat-size do you wear?

You’ve just won the Illuminati Sweepstakes!

Of course, you have spent the better part of a month answering asinine questions and day-dreaming about steam-bathing with power-brokers like the Trump, Beyonce and Kanye, by now, you are chomping at the bit to gain entry. Once the formal invitation arrives, with stipulations, you are overcome with ecstatic joy. All the Illuminati needs, so THEY say in their fanciful embroidery, is a DNA swab taken from the inside of your mouth. THEY just need to ensure you are not related to Obama or Carrot Top. The swab kit is en route courtesy of priority mail! In fact, regardless of your DNA results, THEY would like to send you $50,000 of Good Faith cash. THEY want you to know that if things do not work out, THEY still care about you. So how about $64,500 since you’ve been so patient? Why not? Okay – just provide your checking account number and routing number… a week later… THEY’ve had difficulties accessing your account. Your bank representative has told THEM you need to provide a PIN number before THEY can transfer the Good Faith cash. What is your debit card number and PIN? You should expect to see this transfer on the next business day. And the cotton swabs should be delivered any day now…

There will be transfers, alright. Fuck ’em. Fuck ’em all to hell. You do not need the Illuminati any more than they need you. Yes, it did look good on my LinkedIn resume: Initiate into the Secret Order of the Dragon. Yes, I know you were fantasizing of telling off your boss, “Look here, man! I’m kind of a big deal now. So back off! I know things, man, things I can’t blink out. Things that would give you night terrors and soil your sheets. So back off or I will set my henchmen upon you!” But alas, the Illuminati – whoever they are – are not knocking on your front door. It’s just a scam.



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?”


“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.


“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.”


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.

The popularity of conspiracy theories, according to this bloke, is similar to that of religion – they help explain the brutal randomness of life. Religion, regardless of persuasion, is comforting as it gives meaning to the meaningless by assuming the Powers-that-Be have a Master Plan. Conspiracy theories too assume the masterminding conspirators have a plan, just usually one that tends to be more malevolent than today’s popular deities.

“What’s this?” You may very well be asking yourself right now. “Is he mad? Does Vic think paranoid folk find solace in conspiracy theories the way I find solace sacrificing feral cats to Shiva the Destroyer?”

Yes, indeed. When something as powerfully damaging to the psyche, like the events of 9/11, occurs we are left feeling vulnerable by how random the loss of life is. If there is prevailing conspiracy theory we can adopt, the randomness of such a hostile event fades into something more manageable. Horror is more digestible when there is pre-chewed causality for us to swallow.

Take the example of the chronic school shootings… either we, as a society, are seriously ill OR perhaps the Illuminati is testing out their Manchurian Candidates. Conspiracy theories are often implausible, but involve a flesh & blood enemy (Illuminati are the conspiracy theorist de facto boogieman) when in this case the likely cause, an ill society, is too abstract and random to digest.

When it comes to the deaths of beloved celebrities, the same holds true. “Elvis lives!” claims (s)he who cannot digest the randomness of the King’s death atop a commode. Conspiracy around the events of a celebrity’s demise is another way the obsessed fans find solace. Combine that with the fact the only thing Western culture loves more than the rise of a new star is their downfall. Schadenfreude – finding joy in the misery of others – is the root of Reality Television. Because of this, celebrity deaths garner attention from more than just the adoring fan. High profile deaths are perfect fodder for conspiracy theories, which brings us to this present blog post.

Friends, Paranoids, Countrymen, lend me your eyes… I come here not to praise conspiracy theories, but to bury them. With this blog theme I plan to examine, perhaps even critique, celebrity conspiracy theories. The list is long and this post will be ever alive with new theories. Let us begin with three…

Paul Walker (9/12/1973 – 11/30/2013)

Paul Walker, known for his car-driving protagonist Brian O’Connor in the Fast & Furious series, died in the fires of a car accident in California. He and his friend Roger Rodas shared a mutual demise when the Porsche Rodas was driving crashed into a tree and sparked quite the fire. Police say speed was a factor.

The fierce tree that brought an end to Paul Walker

The fierce tree that brought an end to Paul Walker

If they were driving a Prius at the speed limit, this story would be more suspicious. Conspiracy theories concocted to explain this tragedy range from the bizarre (The Family Guy cartoon show killed off a character, Brian, in a car crash during a recent episode) to the illogical (it’s a Public Relations hoax to promote an already popular movie franchise). One theorist opined that the car accident death of a star of car racing movies was too coincidental, which is not sound thinking. If I go sky-diving every day, there is a greater chance of me dying in a sky-diving accident. That isn’t coincidental, it is statistically more probable. Another theory by the unfortunately named reality television celebrity, Tila Tequila, claims Paul Walker’s death was a ritualistic murder by the occult Illuminati. Could death-by-flaming-Porsche actually be a ritual?

As of yet, there is no evidence of foul play. Until there is, this conspiracy gets 0 out of 5 NeverStars.

Brittany Murphy (11/10/1977 – 12/20/2009)

Brittany, an actress popular for her roles in Clueless and Sin City, died at the age of 32 to pneumonia complicated by severe iron deficiency/anemia and a range of legal over-the-counter cold medications. In the last 3+ years of her life, she lived with her husband Simon Monjack and her mother Sharon Murphy. Six months later, Simon Monjack was found dead in the same house, also of pneumonia and severe anemia. Your pattern recognition red flag should be planted here. Official theory is there was a mold problem in the household. Yeah, no shit.

Brittany Murphy, Hollywood Starlet

Brittany Murphy, Hollywood Starlet

The conspiracy theory is presented by Brittany’s estranged father and convicted racketeer, Angelo Bertolotti, and a pseudo-journalist whistleblower, Julia Davis. Julia Davis, a self-described expert in immigration, went to the FBI years ago to blow her whistle about Homeland Security allowing illegal access to the United States to potential terror suspects, which started a campaign of oppression against her. Julia Davis’ lone champion? According to Julia and Angelo Bertolotti, it was Brittany Murphy. In recent promotions of the movie and book Julia Davis has underway, she and Bertolotti suggest Homeland Security poisoned both Brittany Murphy and her husband Simon Monjack as retaliation for their support of Julia Davis.

Chances of conspiracy? 0.5 out of 5 NeverStars only because of the moldy coincidence, if nothing else. Sharon Murphy, the live-in mom, says her daughter didn’t know anything about Julia Davis and that Angelo Bertolotti “didn’t come out of the woodwork” until his daughter became famous in Hollywood. Let us also take the point-of-view of an alleged conspirator for a moment… If there you were to sneaky assassinate via poison someone, why not stick mold down the windpipe of the whistle blower? Why use the same technique against a Hollywood starlet and her widower? This seems like a conspiracy of convenience to draw legitimacy to Julia Davis.

Sonny Bono (2/16/1935 – 1/5/1998)

California Congressman Sonny Bono, of “Sonny and Cher” fame (he was the former), was a musician and a politician. He died while skiing in Lake Tahoe when he hit a tree. What was a tragic event on a family vacation is actually fairly suspicious, partly because the accident occurred when Sonny was skiing alone, allowing for no eyewitness account of how the side of his head met the tree.

Bono’s widow claimed Sonny was on painkillers, explaining the meds made him foolish enough to launch himself into a tree, blacking his eye, knocking out teeth, and fracturing his skull. The Republican Congressman must have hit every branch.

Republican Congressman Sonny Bono

Republican Congressman Sonny Bono

Former FBI Agent, Ted Gunderson disagrees with the official story. He claims that Sonny Bono was about to launch a congressional investigation into the involvement of American officials in Central American gun and drug trading. Gunderson claims Sonny’s death was orchestrated to silence the congressman.

2 out of 5 NeverStars here, this is a legitimate conspiracy theory. The motive is absolutely plausible and unofficial forensic reports suspect Sonny was actually struck repeatedly by a round, blunt, instrument held by a left-handed attacker while Sonny was being held up by another assailant.


Layla Santana Crow was your ordinary cheerleader-next-door in Suburban Florida: well-tanned, well-accessorized and living in the lap of relative luxury. According to her husband, Layla once turned down the homecoming queen nomination in favor of her girlfriend, because “that’s how amaze-balls of a BFF” she was. Layla followed-up her brief stint as a South Florida weather girl by marrying an apocalyptic survivalist and carving out a comfy little niche for herself in the Central Florida scrub-brush. She was such a nice and normal girl… at least until she became introduced to the concept of the Illuminati. Now she sees the Illuminati everywhere – in her music, her television, the gossip magazines she flippantly flips through and even the tattoos on her husband’s back which once appeared irreverent and now are read with ominous origins.

When asked, the husband in question was dismissive of his wife’s newly acquired paranoia as if it were just another pair of high heels. He made a joke, “L. Ron would be proud” which seemed innocently irrelevant at the time. He facetiously thanked me, Vic Neverman, for making his wife aware of the Illuminati. “She now sees them everywhere.”

Disaffected Youth of the Faux Illuminati Generation: Layla and her dog Gooseman

Disaffected Youth of the Faux Illuminati Generation: Layla and her dog Gooseman

If she is more aware of the potential for conspiracy, then surely my work here is done. I asked Layla how if her new insight has changed her and how. Does she find herself more paranoid, does she eat more granola, is she less trusting of the sun? She answered simply “yes”. “People are crazy” she posited, “for real.”

Layla’s life is forever changed. With the only animated entity she can truly trust, her German Shepherd “Gooseman”, she watched last week’s American Music Awards with eyes wide open and alarmed at how thoroughly infected by “Illuminati” symbolism popular music has become. And there seems to be something new… She took me to her conspiracy room where she showed me tweets and facebook posts from celebrities as well as images and lyrics from the latest music performances. “Diamonds…” She shook her head, flabbergastedly flummoxed. “They are suddenly everywhere and I do not know what it means.”


Lady Gaga demonstrating the Eye of Horus

Lady Gaga demonstrating the Eye of Horus

As an absurdity aficionado who moonlights as a conspiracy theorist, I, Vic Neverman, have dabbled in the esoteric and studied the studies of the hierophant. While I will give this new “Illuminati” meme credit for being the inspiration for many popular music acts today, I completely reject the argument the original entity (the 18th Century Members-Only jacket-wearing elitists) still exist today and are pulling the puppet-strings of these musicians. Such a concept is madness and I’ve said as much. The Illuminati was a tree-house boys club off-shoot of the Age of Enlightenment, they were not necessarily practitioners in occult rites and ceremonies (as their contemporary Freemasons were). What exists today is Faux Illuminati, though the symbolism at play is as old as Homo erectus ourselves. The “Eye of Horus” okay-sign used frequently by Lady Gaga has its roots in Egyptian mythology. The pyramid hands or eye-blink references to the “Eye of Providence” is a symbol tied to the masonic image on the one-dollar bill, but actually has earlier roots in Christian Gnosticism. Nevertheless, the roots of these symbols have little to do with their usage today. The Faux Illuminati is alive and well in contemporary music. The original Illuminati is not.

The question is – what purpose does the Faux Illuminati serve? Secrecy sells – as evidenced in the success of the hidden worlds of Harry Potter and the naughty bedrooms of 50 Shades…  This revival of ancient symbolism by Jay-Z and Kanye West may just be an inside joke and/or a publicity stunt. Maybe. Likely. Or is it something more sinister? In Umberto Ecco’s conspiracy fiction masterpiece, Foucault’s Pendelum, the protagonists are literary editors who speak of the Illuminati in jest, but the more they investigate the history and the symbolism the more the paranoia becomes alive in the world around them. Layla Santana Crow and many other concerned spectators have plunged down that very rabbit hole and they have learned it is a very real place.


Layla Santana Crow was once a jovial party hostess largely indifferent to dinosaurs and other archaic irrelevancies. Today, I count her as a fellow paranoid, obsessed with the occult revival occurring on her very Twitter feed. She is not alone as the youth of America are drawn to these new words and symbols, curious as what lies behind the wizard’s curtain. The text she relays about Kim Kardashian’s Facebook post “Diamond in the Sky” illustrates as much…

“Kim Kardashian posted this at Kanye’s party… Illuminati much?” - Layla to Vic via Text

“Kim Kardashian posted this at Kanye’s party… Illuminati much?” – Layla to Vic via Text

As last week’s American Music Awards program was aired, Layla kept me informed of this new symbolic phenomena – a practical diamond mine (mind). The androgynous Miley Cyrus sang before a cat crying diamonds and Rihanna performed a song called “Diamonds” in which she threw up the occult pyramid sign. What in for unlawful carnal knowledge’s sake is all this sudden diamond madness? Kim Kardashian’s post was thought to be a reference to her recent engagement, but Kayne West’s Faux Illuminati leanings suggest his comments imply something else.

Rihanna flashes her pyramid at the AMAs

Rihanna flashes her pyramid at the AMAs

Shine bright like a diamond. We’re beautiful like diamonds in the sky.

– Rihanna

Miley and her Cat crying Diamonds

Miley and her Cat crying Diamonds

Diamonds in the sky… diamonds cried by space cats… what does it mean? As a former pirate radio disk jockey, I am naturally inclined to revert back to the Beatles song “Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds”. The two main theories on the meaning behind the lyrics are championed by the co-writers of the very song. John Lennon says the song’s name was taken from his sons drawing. Paul McCartney says “Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds”, “Got To Get You Back In My Life” and “Day Tripper” are about LSD, pot and acid, in that order.

BUT THEN was that the Paul McCartney before or after the original Paul McCartney died?paul is dead

“Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds” was in the album Sgt Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band, the album cover of which featured the image of Aleister Crowley – occultist extraordinaire and the creepiest devil-beast by his own mother’s admission. Is it a reach to think the diamonds in the sky that accompanied Lucy were something more than a reference to drugs or a child’s drawings?

If you read the lyrics to the trippy Beatles classic, they are bloody nonsense. I am a Beatles fan (-ish, I prefer the equally Aleister Crowley-obsessed Led Zeppelin) and cannot sit through this bubbly bizarre song. Perhaps there is more to the lyrics than the unitiated can interpret. Within this haze, I have even noticed Elton John’s “Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds” cover from 1974 being played over the radio more than I can ever recall, despite the fact Elton John himself hasn’t sang the song since John Lennon’s assassination in 1980.

There are other theories pertaining to “Lucy” being Aleister Crowley’s fallen angel of choice – Lucifer, he of the Morning Star, the Prince of Light. The Illumined One. Are we getting creepy enough for you and Rihanna yet? The Illuminati was a boys club of enlightenment that was disbanded over 200 years ago. Could the Faux Illuminati be a contemporary cult for the fallen angel Lucifer?

Beatles weren't occultists! With Yellow Submarine: Paul with the Eye of Horus, John with the horns of the devil

Beatles weren’t occultists! With Yellow Submarine: Paul with the Eye of Horus, John with the horns of the devil


Searching for other possible meanings behind the symbolism of the Diamond, I found the below passage from my private library. It is taken from the Buddhist text, the Diamond Sutra, and is in reference to a false awake, that life is but a dream.

Thus shall ye think of all this fleeting world:
A star at dawn, a bubble in a stream;
A flash of lightning in a summer cloud,
A flickering lamp, a phantom, and a dream.

As little more than a casual aside, I began to research the comments made by Layla Santana Crow’s husband about L. Ron Hubbard. I had considered such comments as little more than a jest. Surely, he did not think L. Ron Hubbard was an agent of the Illuminati and that Scientology was a vehicle of mass manipulation through media… But damn. That does have a ring to it. Certainly, Scientology does have a hold of a certain creepy subset of celebrity actors. Is Scientology a Hollywood parallel to the Faux Illuminati of the music business?

Casually, I began reviewing Scientology Symbolism and there it was – significant references to diamonds. The logo for Scientology’s Church of Spiritual Technology is two diamonds within two circles. This logo is carved into the New Mexican mountainscape near Scientology’s Trementia Base and his large enough to be seen from lower orbit. Former church members claim the circles are meant to provide direction for reincarnated Scientologists descending from space. Diamonds seen from the sky.

What is it that Layla’s husband does know? The former apocalyptic survivalist turned Nashville evangelist, is none other than Cyrus Lee Hancock. His finger-point to Scientology may be a red herring, but it may very well be a relevant connection.

What very little is certain is that there is a wide-spread connection in popular fringe culture between diamonds and the sky. Is it a reference to drugs, to reincarnated aliens, to fallen angels? All of the above?

Circle and Diamond of Scientology's Trementina Base in New Mexico

Circle and Diamond of Scientology’s Trementina Base in New Mexico

The Illuminati thought they had a good thing going in the global manipulation business when they introduced the world to Girl Scout Cookies, but that evil venture pales in comparison to the secret society’s latest attempt in brainwashing the American populace – infiltrating the music industry.

Jay Z and Kanye West occupy the all-seeing eye atop the pyramid

Jay Z and Kanye West occupy the all-seeing eye atop the pyramid

Or so you might believe should you be intrepid enough of a traveler to go spelunking in the deepest recesses of the labyrinthine internet where paranoid fusion has both rightwing and leftwing enthusiasts blending their own mad theories and trolling rants into formless goo of a conspiracy meme involving the Illuminati’s hijacking of Hip Hop to use as a collective-mind-remote-control against our mass consciousness. There aren’t as many articles on the Illuminati/Hip Hop subject as there are videos (925,000 search results on Youtube when searching “Hip Hop Illuminati”). The prominence of conspiracy videos versus hand-typed drivel is telling as it is much easier for the belligerent ramblings of a drunken & bigoted uncle to be captured on film as he pisses into your potted plant than it would be for him to write down how he “really feels” in legible prose. This is where I, Vic Neverman – conspiracy belligerence interpreter extraordinaire, come in… I shall decipher the interweb paranoia and provide my own verdict on the Illuminati hijacking Hip Hop via my own hand-typed drivel.

Is this paranoia imitating art or art imitating paranoia? The list of the alleged Illuminati puppets reads like the top 40 chart – Eminem, Kanye West, Drake, Jay Z, Rihanna, Lady Gaga – and not all of these artists have suffered from the suspicion. Many have even played up occult symbolism in their lyrics and music videos, doing their own part to foment hysteria.

Given Hip Hop’s obsession with power structures (pro-mafia, anti-police, etc.), a curiosity with a secret elite or occult practices would make sense. In the past, street cred may have been bestowed upon Hip Hop stars based on their involvement in gangs, which led to the climactic conclusions of several artists – Tupac, Big E, etc. Today’s more corporate comfy Hip Hop stars might find it safer to align their allegiances to the secret elite than gangs on the street (certainly Jay Z already figures into the financial elite sect). An added benefit for one of these artists to hint at a membership within a secret society is that no one can prove them wrong. Especially when the society in question, the Bavarian Illuminati, has been defunct for over 200 years, who is going to challenge you?

Professor Griff links the Illuminati with Alistair Crowley, Jay Z, McDonalds, Yoga, Adam Weishaupt...

Professor Griff links the Illuminati with Alistair Crowley, Jay Z, McDonalds, Yoga, Adam Weishaupt…

Yet there are those that feel that the Illuminati references are more than a marketing ploy. There are those who believe the artists who reference the Illuminati are doing it to sell America to the Devil (Christian-Right conspiracy enthusiasts) or to brainwash the public into accepting our dystopian fate as a fascist new world (leftwing conspiracy enthusiasts) or the same brainwash routine to fit us into a socialist new world (libertarian conspiracy enthusiasts).

One established and vociferous antagonist to the Illuminati’s influence on Hip Hop who stands at the forefront of the Hip Hop Trutherism conspiracy dialogue is the self-described “Minister of Information”, Professor Griff of Public Enemy. As a member of an iconic Hip Hop group, Griff offers a unique perspective (which he will sell to you via his new book, “the Psychological Covert War on Hip Hop”) detailing the machinations of the undermining of the music industry. Hip Hop, says Griff, stands for “high infinite power healing our people” and now it has been taken over by the same unseen forces that have put President Obama and Jay Z into positions of power. Griff has certainly done his research, mentioning the name of Adam Weishaupt and detailing an Illuminati policy where members must be from at least one of 13 bloodlines – the families that secretly rule the world. Of course, there is no telling which reliable website he did his research from. Here is Professor Griff’s own site, which has a brief video on his Illuminati ideas in the top left hand corner.

Lady Gaga beckons to her legion to sacrifice pigeons

Lady Gaga beckons to her legion to sacrifice pigeons

There are more qualified social critics than I to stick their finger up the zeitgeist to take the pulse of contemporary culture, but I do know something about the history of secret societies. The Bavarian Illuminati was indeed formed by Adam Weishaupt in 1776, but it is here that Griff gets off track. The Illuminati was an extension of the Enlightenment movement – the push for reason over religion, for democracy over feudalism. In 1784, the Bavarian Illuminati became verboten, outlawed by the Princes who felt threatened by such liberal ideas. While its members likely went on to join Masonic lodges or other likeminded European societies, the Bavarian Illuminati itself was kaput. While we have evidence of the existence of the Bilderberg Group, of Bohemian Grove, of Skull & Bones and other secret societies, there is nothing out there to suggest that the Illuminati was around after 1784 other than unsubstantiated rumor or satires by the likes of Leo Taxil. If it weren’t for the frothing madness of the John Birch Society through the last century, the very name of the Illuminati might have faded from the public’s imagination.

The Illuminati is like a ghost story. You don’t have to believe it actually exists in order to be haunted by its presence.

– Vic Neverman, Vancouver 2010 (yes, I did just quote myself)

So yes, Griff was right about Adam Weishaupt founding the Illuminati, but his theories on the historic entity become unhinged from there. There were no blood sacrifices in the Illuminati. While the occult often takes central stage in secret societies: Freemasonry, the Golden Dawn, Bohemian Grove, the Thule Society of 3rd Reich Germany – the darkness of the occult had no place in the ideas of the “illumined”. The Illuminati believed in enlightenment concepts that would have dispelled superstitious traditions as hogwash. Griff’s “13 bloodline” concept is similar malarkey – the Enlightenment was against feudal titles and the Illuminati would have judged initiates by the soundness of their reason over the inbred homogeny of their blood.

Hip Hop certainly was not the first to flirt with the possibility of an Illuminati influence over world events, but the greatest use of this genre was in a comedic mold. See the Illuminatus! Trilogy by Robert Shea and Robert Anton Wilson for the grandfather of all conspiracy fiction. While I loved the first of the three books, my attention was lost once Howard the talking porpoise showed up and the sleeping Nazis woke from the bottom of Lake Totenkopf to march on a Hippie music festival in Bavaria. Still, Illuminatus! was first in a new form of fiction based off of conspiracy hysteria and it is comedic in nature. So too is what I consider to be the greatest conspiracy fiction of all time (which is as mind expanding as Illuminatus!, just not as trippy) – Foucault’s Pendulum by Umberto Ecco (whose Prague Cemetery also speaks about the Illuminati during the revolutionary period in Europe). It is only in the post-9/11 era that conspiracy fiction, whether via Dan Brown or Hip Hop, has become so damn serious.

Perhaps Hip Hop’s Illuminati is a big inside joke, itself. Mayhaps it is something truly malevolent. It is my intent to find out.

Thanks to the tireless efforts of my research staff: my Puerto Rican psychic sidekick from Milwaukee and Layla Santana Crow, I have a pile of Illuminati theory websites to sift through. I do so, dear reader, for the benefit of humanity at large. Through my efforts at digesting hysteria and regurgitating the contents back in your direction, I shall attempt to assess the situation while sparing you the psycho-trauma of having to walk down the slippery staircase of mass disinformation. Stay tuned for further critiques on paranoid theories involving Katy Perry’s Kardashian link, Justin Bieber’s new tattoo and the death of Michael Jackson…

Good God, man. What happened to yesterday? In the hours before today, I was stomping my bruised foot along to the fiddles, sitting beside a beautiful Parisian student who was either making eyes at me or had developed a twitch from drinking too much cider. In those last hours of yesterday, Drambull was discussing competitive dance with the Swiss backpacker while Pax ran interference with the Swiss girl’s Italian lesbian bunk mate by pretending he was from Barcelona. There were laughs, Cuda brought over a round of whiskeys which begat more laughter. Then today happened. Shit.

When the pubs of yesterday close, the only business in Galway to be done at this hour was to be done at the Russian Dove – a labyrinth four stories tall with various halflevels, doorways to nowhere, open thresholds to oblivion, a maze of multidimensional mindfuckery, booze, silent disco (silent disco?) and mayhem both general & particular. After midnight, this was where to be and it was the last place I wanted to be. Sure – these were the witching hours of the conspiracist, but I was a sports journalist now, damn it. Ireland was sinking into a dark bog of paranoid isolationism and it was within the dungeons of the Russian Dove where the diseased rats of conspiracy were able to breed with their incestuous kin, spawning new depths of psychosis and malaise. In one corridor, the descendants of Adam Weishaupt represented the Bavarian Illuminati at the billiards table. Behind the bar, the Irish Republicans watched with a melancholic anger. At the turntables, the French Resistance was lost. The ex-KGB bouncer wasn’t taking his eyes off of Pax who he assumed was an anti-Castro un-revolutionary. After midnight, the sun had finally set on Galway and only madness filled the void.

I could feel the stout in my veins clouding my judgment, so I switched from Guinness to the lighter Smithwicks. Bollocks. Ten years gone and it is only 00:02. I leaned against the wall in order to steady the floor.

There has to be rules. Even a “free” society must put restrictions on our impulses, our greed, our desire to scratch our privates in public and fling poo at those we disagree with. The Unabomber was free – he lived in the woods, scratched his balls without hesitation, wrote manifestos and blew up whoever we wanted. Do we really want a world of freemen like him? Of course not. Which is why we put people in power, people to govern, people to make rules. It all seems so feudal, but who is going to protect the people from the Barbarism – both within the gates and without?

Coach Cuda, the man in charge of the “Catawampus” “Feralcats” Men’s “Competitive Dance” Team, had to set some rules. Each member of his collegiate squad, individually, was a nice young lad. Together, they were a plague of locusts. As ambassadors of America during this journey to Ireland, the guys had to be kept in line in order to avoid an international incident as well as avoid an entire generation of Yank bastard seeds in the bellies of the Galway girls. Cuda set a curfew of 22:00 and there was to be no drinking or shirtlessness in the hallways of the hotel.

After the 10 pm curfew, Cuda, his assistant coaches, and I, the team journalist and your narrator, Vic Neverman, would set out into the city. We too had to have rules. We were just as likely as the lads to start an international incident, though we did possesss enough good sense and restraint to not leave too many bastards in our wake. Our rules were simple. First – there was to be no discussion of dragons existing in the present (past or future was fair game). Second – if we closed a pub down, it was time to go home. These rules proved to be loose guidelines that would be ignored.

The pubs closed and after midnight the only place to be was the Russian Dove. After midnight, dissent kept quiet during the day was suddenly audible. Dissent to the rules. Dissent against the Euro, against the Union, against the Germans, against “Austerity”. Ireland was bankrupt and in order for Germany, the European Union, to bail out the Irish they would have to accept the austerity rules set forth by Germany. There would be a vote by the Irish people – accept defeat and take commands from the Union, or – spit in their faces, ensure independence and fight through these new troubles, these economic troubles, as Ireland and only Ireland. To vote against “Austerity” was to gamble with the future. No “Austerity”, no bail out.

As soon as yesterday was no more and those that would qualify today as today were still abed, voices of dissent arose. I heard these voices, have always heard these voices. The conspiracists for years have said the Fourth Reich was the banking establishment. Why did J. Edgar Hoover keep a file on Hitler sightings post-WW2? And now… and now, they point out, and now Germany is the economic might behind the European Union! The conspiracists ask, is this a coincidence?

Conspiracy Theory is looking at the stars in the sky and drawing your own constellations, whichever patterns best rationalize your cause. The Nazis are dead, I say, but old animosity is hard to minimize in these troubled times. The Irish don’t want to take their marching orders from the Germans and so the old nightmares are refreshed.

The “Troubles” of Northern Ireland is a reference to the centuries old effort at creating an independent Ireland – all of it – from the Brits. The Irish Republican Army rose in defiance of Her Majesty’s Occupation. Too much Catholic and Protestant blood was shed in these “Troubles”, but eventually a more peaceful coexistence was found. While Northern Ireland is more calm now than the entirety of the previous century, the Irish Republican Army still exists. The IRA’s political arm, Sinn Fein, still exists. In fact, the Sinn Fein Party is only gaining in popularity as it vehemently opposes the “Austerity” vote. Sinn Fein was once a movement of secular independence against the Queen, now it is a movement of economic independence against the Euro Empire.

And here we were in the Russian Dove. My jacket is strewn about somewhere as I skip around the dance floor, an imported American jester. At least the Smithwicks rehydrates me. There is too much club fog and we four horsemen of the Catawampus Apocalypse escape to the rooftop where hundreds more bodies are gathered in these witching hours, moving, dancing, drinking, plotting, scheming, endeavoring to conspire.

I find an English antagonist, a bloody prisoner of Mother England who is aggressively sucking his hand-rolled cigarette. He’s a bright chap and perhaps a decent bloke, if he weren’t such a fucking wanker. He criticizes America for our lack of social welfare. He criticizes Cuda and me for wearing our billed caps, “No one in Ireland wears them anymore.” I shrug, they are worn plenty back home. I enjoy his lack of couth, his unfriendliness in what one would assume were friendly confines. I delight in it, actually. The American social construct has so many conversational rules for small talk that no true discussion is really ever had. Perhaps a glutton for punishment, I stay in this POME’s company as he spits out his drivel of how everything I am is wrong. I smile and accept what is fair and debate what is not. It is refreshing to me, really. Perhaps if he insulted the NeverMum or Bo Lynn or my Puerto Rican psychic sidekick from Milwaukee, he’d have my forehead in his nasal cavity, but this mild flavor of his spittled spite was a warmer mist than the constant rain hitting the tarp that covered our rooftop perch.

While I appreciated the broken rules of social politeness exhibited before me, Pax and Cuda were poised to pounce. Pax, the Cuban exile, is a passionate American who doesn’t give a shit about England. Cuda, whose family is from Northern Ireland’s “Bandit Country” and who is an IRA sympathizer, hates all things imperial. The two of them would have loved to pummel my new and now former friend, the 5’7″ chain-smoking lonely lymie who was only voicing his dissent because it was after midnight and it was all he knew to do. Drambull and I corralled our angered friends and we left the roof.

We followed the broken fragments of intrigue, retracing our steps down the stairs to the various levels of clandestine encounters and cryptic messages written on the walls of the loo. When we finally found our way out of Minos’ prison, we emerged onto the street to find one of the Soviet bouncers with his knee in someone’s back, holding the rule breaker to the wet street of Galway.

In a few hours, a traditional Irish breakfast would be well received. Order would be restored.

Cuda, Drambull, Neverman and Pax at their favored pub in Galway, Monroe’s