Posts Tagged ‘Police State’

Police State in the America Heartland

Police State in the America Heartland

I was in no great hurry to return to the United States. Vagabonding in Morocco suited my appetites and appealed to my nostalgie de la boue. I had established a cavalier existence as an ex-pat living in an Outremer oasis where I traded in spice and napped between beers. Ultimately, my paradise would be dashed by the winds of the sirocco. I had gone broke attempting to distill tequila with the local agave (not to mention the check from the Australians for “espionage services” bounced), I was plagued by the subversive machinations of the Qatari Royals who didn’t appreciate my pissing on their bee hive and I couldn’t keep ignoring the nastiest elephant in the room: Ebola.

Thus, I returned to the fascist dystopia of my homeland where racially motivated protests in Missouri were confronted by the National Guard. In a world where headlines are shared with threats of ISIS and Hezbollah sleeper cells, this is the new normal. Call it “proactive” or “over-reactive”, just be sure to get your hands up and head down until the cloud of pepper spray passes. At the core of the overreaction is the hardware – military leftovers handed down from Big Brother to the cross-eyed cousins working for the local constable.

Why is Hulk not a massage therapist? Because SMASH. Why should we not put military-grade weapons in the hands of every small town copper? Because SMASH.

The cities are overreacting just as quickly. After the Boston Marathon Bombing, the city was occupied by its own militarized police force exercising Marshal Law. Two dangerous suspects were on the loose, thus tanks. Overreaction is the new normal. Hulk SMASH is the new normal. Are there Hezbollah or ISIS sleeper cells in America? Unlikely. Yet, we are armed for Red Dawn.

Remember Reaganomics? Trickle-down theory? Well, you build a Star Wars missile defense system for the Military Industrial Complex, you are going to have some trickling down, right? Trickle, trickle, little star, now you have traffic cops with javelin missile launchers and shit…

– Reverend Cyrus Lee Hancock of the Church of John the Revelator


Frieda Johnson, B-movie starlet*, would arrive home to her beach cottage to find an unexpected bouquet of lilies tossed atop her kitchen counter in between a bottle of fine scotch and a week’s worth of dishes in the sink. Within the refrigerator, Frieda would notice missing a can of cheap domestic swill. It would become apparent to her, if it hadn’t been already, Vic Neverman had been there. White lilies, good scotch and vanishing beer was not the calling card of this haunted vagabond, but it damn well should (note to self). Frieda would leave the cottage in search of Vic, wandering through the backyard of broken, sun-bleached concrete, onto the sandy pass through the sea oats and sandspurs and onto the beach where the Gulf of Mexico lapped its salty regurgitate along the shore in gently passing waves. Within the dunes she would find Vic Neverman, sitting beerless. Why no beer? Because police state.

*you might recognize Frieda’s work in various dragon-centric melodramas, slasher horror films and local fashion commercials.

I had returned from North Africa weeks earlier, long enough to contract a chigger infestation in Central Florida and make the drive to the Gulf Coast to soak chigger-ridden feet in the seawater. Here in Redington Shores, the endless expanse of white sands are mostly desolate and empty of mammalian presence this time of year due to the pitiless heat and thunderhead monstrosities hovering overhead. This is where I found solace and despite the dearth of beachcombers, this is where the local police found their person of interest while patrolling in their four-wheeled tank. I waved neighborly at the passing stooge, only for police to reverse in its tank tracks. Summoned by the deputy within, I approached his warhorse. There is certainly, positively, absolutely no alcohol allowed on the beach. I admitted my mistake to the fat bastard sitting in the cozy air-conditioning of the police tank and then hooked a thumb over my shoulder; the sign read “no bottles” and “no vehicles allowed on the beach”. I had a can of beer. Smokey had a tank.  Who was in the wrong?

Smokey took off his Terminator glasses. He was seeing red, though his eyes, sadly, did not glow robotic. I can outrun Officer Blutarsky, was my prevailing thought. He’d probably chase me through the sea oats in his tank; agility, however, favors my nimble feet. Alas… my bare feet were in a sand-spurred minefield. Acquiescing, I threw away the empty can of beer. Smokey waited, watching and then sped away in a 7 mph cloud of sand-dollar dust.

What I like is how some schmuck sheriff somewhere, he being the only law dog in town, somehow received not 1 but 2 if Barney Fife needs mine-resistant hardware to fend off the meth-heads besieging the proletariat.

Seeing as there doesn’t seem to be much of a qualification need for this stuff I think we should apply for some grenade launchers and Predator drones.

– Prof. Erasmus of Otter Dam Military Academy

Ferguson, Mizzou, this was not. Fascism, however, has gone grassroots.

WATERTOWN, Mass, SWAT searches for the Tsarnaev brothers.

WATERTOWN, Mass, SWAT searches for the Tsarnaev brothers.

When it comes to the over-reaction of police force, there is fault in the mere ability to overreact. Abuse of the badge can exist without war gear, yet it is the hand-me-down toys of the Military Industrial Complex that has fallen into the laps of your local yahoo deputy that exacerbates the overreaction. Ike Eisenhower warned us about the Military Industrial Complex. The war companies prospered in the Cold War and after the fall of the Berlin Wall they sought eternal strife elsewhere. Is there any question why we are once again faced with a Russian nemesis as well as saddled with endless war against the concept of “terrorism”? This is what the Military Industrial Complex peddles: antagonism.

Ferguson, Mizzou... police react with weapons raised

Ferguson, Mizzou… police react with weapons raised

I am not brazen enough to say the Military Industrial Complex created monsters like ISIS. Wait… no, on second thought, I am. The Military Industrial Complex is America, Germany and Russia arming as many militants as they can make a buck off of with the unintentional result being the militarization of psychotics in lawless lands decapitating all westerners in their path. Thanks to the suggestive armament of everyone (which the marketing wizards of the Military Industrial Complex propagates) bad heroes, good villains and all the blood-thirsty bastards in between are armed to their heart’s content. The trickle down leftovers are then distributed to the local thugs like your cousin Eddy who flunked police academy twice before psychological test standards were lowered and he made his way onto the local SWAT team. Yay, Eddy! Damn the rest of us.

Escalation of violence always begets escalation of violence. Keep your hands up and your head down.


Earlier this week, I blogged about the unlikelihood of this Snowden character and the direct parallels to the war satire, Catch 22. Last night, trumpeted by the bullfrogs outside my window arrived the witching hour and with it a message from my old fear-mongering foe, Reverend Chette. While in the past the good Reverend has attempted to scare me shitless with his dire prognostications of the fate of one Victor Ulysses Neverman, this message was instead a confirmation of my suspicion about Snowden’s legitimacy. In short, Reverend Chette believes this NSA leakage uproar a smokescreen hiding whatever clandestine mechanization might be going on in the dim background.

Below is his message in full. I would like to offer some defense of a true victim of this Snowden scandal: the now ex-girlfriend, Lindsay Mills. While it is very likely she will cash in on this new fame as America’s newest “reality” celebrity, it is possible she has been bamboozled by the Snowden she loved and left to burn in the spotlight of the paparazzi. For one: the media (and Rev Chette) have already portrayed her as a professional pole dancer. I have read enough of her blogs and other reports to refute this – she is a professional dancer for a ballet troupe in Hawai’i and she happens to have a blog where she describes herself as a pole-dancing superhero and post half-naked photos of herself along with a video of her pole dancing. There is obviously a difference between an artist and a lap-dancing opportunist. Hmmm… perhaps I too am blinded. I have always been a sucker for a damsel in distress.

Here is the girlfriend’s blog, L’s Journey (it appears the high volume of site traffic has forced the blog-site to deactivate this page, try reading what the British muckrakers have dug up here). The more I think of it… perhaps she was the agent provocateur pulling Snowden’s puppet strings.

As promised, Reverend Chette’s rant in full:

Good Evening Vic,

I know it’s been quite a while since our last correspondence, but I’ve found the developments of the past few weeks/days too irresistible not to risk reaching out. As you know, my contacts deep within the shadowy confines of the unstoppable machine give me more insight than the sheep-herded masses, and what I’m about to tell you will hopefully help you navigate the perilous waters of current events.

At this point I’m sure you are asking “why me?” Well, let’s just say you are the lucky bastard that I decided to use to get the word out. Sorry to be so blunt, but I don’t have time to pussy-foot around when it comes to important matters such as these, and per our previous conversations and interactions, you seem to be a man than is open-minded enough to realize the true breadth of what I’m talking about.

Now, down to the brass tax. Since you are a connected man, I’m sure you have expert knowledge about what is currently taking place regarding the leaking of information about one of our favorite gov’t agencies. Mr. Snowden, as you have heard, is a man seemingly on the run, touting himself as a savior to the common man and a beacon of light for society as a whole.

Vic, like myself, I figure you have been a little skeptical of how “convenient” this all seems. I can confirm to you now, per my very good sources, that this is indeed entirely too convenient. If this were a football game, this last play by our Administration would be comparable to the old “Statute of Liberty” formation. They want us to look for the pass, while their minions run down the sideline after a reverse handoff. This is from the old school playbook. Moves like this are so old, that when someone finally pulls it out of the hat again after such a long moratorium, it seems original. Except, in this case, they don’t want you to know it’s taking place at all.

Back in the good ol’ days, we used to run similar schemes like this all the time, just on a smaller scale. This one is brazen, and I’ll be damned if it ain’t working. Forget Snowden…the guy is nothing more than a smokescreen, a distortion, an invention of our current Administration, and of connected individuals with an interest in making sure that the people retain (or regain) trust in their government.

I’m sure your first question is “why would they do this to themselves?” And, “what do they have to gain?” That my friend, is where this gets interesting. These people are not stupid, and they don’t play around when it comes to keeping the status quo in place. Most people in this country would just dismiss what I’m about to tell you because it seems too far-fetched. Not me. I’ve been in the trenches. I know how these people work and how they think. I know what is at stake for them, and what they stand to lose.

If Snowden is real, he is only real in body. He’s an obvious plant by our own gov’t to take the focus away from more important issues and potential problems that could creep up as a result of the numerous scandals that had taken our Administration by storm recently. From the IRS scandal to the Benghazi incident, this Administration and other parts of our gov’t have been up to their eyeballs in shit for far too long, and it was appearing they would be there a while longer…all under Mr. Snowden appeared out of the blue to save the day.

Mr. Snowden, however he was deceived or enticed into doing this (probably with an amount of money that will make him a very rich man), will eventually go down as nothing more than a young, naive, loose cannon with an inferiority complex, and a burning desire for attention. You or I may not be happy with those labels if it were us in his shoes, but if the price was right, we might just consider giving up our life to live one in some foreign fantasy land of prostitutes with a dump truck full of cash. Why Snowden exactly? I’m not entirely sure, but considering how classic this move it, I’m sure there was a good reason for choosing him.

Oh, and the girlfriend story? Ha! That was probably some of the funniest shit I’ve read in quite a while. In fact, like Mr. Snowden himself, it was just too convenient. These guys are good, but someone really needs a lesson from an old pro like me in how to run diversion tactics. I mean, really…a world traveling pole dancer? What the fuck were these guys thinking? The guy that was responsible for coming up with that lame nonsense must have cringed when he read that in actual print. If not, I hope someone has a hole already dug for him in the desert, because that fucking moron is going to give the whole organization away. At times like this, I wouldn’t mind selling out again and jumping back into the game just to slap the shit out of someone.

You see, they are willing to take a hit for a few days if the end-game will be that they will be proven right – that these government programs are legal, legit, and are being run with the correct checks and balances. While the mainstream media, bloggers, and critics go apeshit saying “I told you so!!” in the near-term, the long-run scheme is to take one for the team, and live to fight another day. Once the wailing and gnashing of teeth is over, and they are proven to be correct, then not only have they scored a major blow for their credibility, but they have pushed the real issues to the back burner long enough that ether the majority of the public and major news media tire of the old story, or in an effort not to make themselves look stupid again, they decide to “move on.” Either way, this buys them time, and most importantly, it buys them credibility, even if they have to cheat to get it. Remember, this is not civics class, as I know you are well aware. This is the real world – one that most people never see, especially not Americans that are more worried about buying their next car, planning their next vacation, or watching episodes of Jerry Springer, to really care or to ask about what really goes on.

So, as for the Snowden story, I call complete bullshit. If you want the real scandal, keep your eye on the IRS, or dig deeper to find the real gem hidden in the weeds. My educated assessment, based on my years of experience in the field, tell me that they must be desperate to divert from something. Is the potential of the IRS story really that great? Maybe. Maybe not. Maybe, they are running down the sideline behind our defense now while we continue to watch the QB.

Stay safe,


Catch 22: Yossarian hovers over a dying Snowden

Catch 22: Yossarian hovers over a dying Snowden

Man was matter, that was Snowden’s secret. Drop him out a window, and he’ll fall. Set fire to him and he’ll burn. Bury him and he’ll rot, like other kinds of garbage. The spirit gone, man is garbage. That was Snowden’s secret. Ripeness was all.

― Joseph Heller, Catch 22

After the whistles blew, uncovering extensive surveillance of the American people by the National Security Agency, outrage filled the headlines. The streets, themselves, were quiet, but the media went apeshit. I, Vic Neverman, skipped over the story as a non-event, what I perceived to be common knowledge. In Bluffsdale, Utah, NSA’s Spy City is being erected to store each of our phone conversations, texts, tweets and emails where their algorithmic spider-bots crawl over the words in search of suspicion worth red-flagging. This is going to be the Tower of Big Brother Babel. But what is the point of building a Spy City if the NSA isn’t going to poach records from Verizon and the rest of corporate infomerica? This latest whistle-blowing is only news to the mainstream.

Julian Assange, CIA patsy or just pastey? Seen here today at the Ecuadoran Embassy.

Julian Assange, CIA patsy or just pastey? Seen here today at the Ecuadoran Embassy.

What did raise a brow of suspicion is this Edward Snowden character, the confessed leaker. It is a strange, treasonous age we live in, where these whistleblowers become celebrities. We never learned much about the Wiki-Leaker Bradley Manning before the Pentagon put him in the dungeon, but we now all about Julian Assange, the Godfather of Leakage currently hiding out in an Ecuadoran Embassy in London and this dude is total creepers (and setup according to the Cubans). The latest to the party is Snowden, formerly anonymously known as Verax (which is Latin for “kitchen stain remover” or some shit like that), the tech contractor employed by Booz Allen Hamilton and who, from the luxury of his Hong Kong hotel hideout, gave his big scoop to the Guardian and the Wash Post.

(curious about who the heck is Booz Allen Hamilton? see this profile from Top Secret America)

Something is rotten in the Land of Danes as this dude stinks like thawed red herring. First, “Snowden” is obviously another pseudonym, a name borrowed from Joseph Heller’s classic war satire, Catch 22. It was the character Snowden who dies in Yossarian’s arms; Snowden, whose spilt guts tell the protagonist bombardier the “secret” of man and man’s mortality. Yossarian is driven mad with the secret, yet also enlightened with the knowledge that death is inevitable.

Edward Snowden, spilling his guts about the NSA

Edward Snowden, spilling his guts about the NSA

This Snowden, too, is something of a martyr of enlightenment – or so he likes to portray himself. According to him, instead of living out a comfy existence in Hawai’I with his girlfriend and 6-figure salary, he decided to go public with the NSA’s dirty laundry. He says he thought long and hard about the negative impact this will have on his family. He says he realizes he will never be able to go home.

Ed Snowden has all the makings of a disingenuous, self-righteous douchebag.

Don’t get me wrong – I am pro-transparency. I am anti-fascist. I am against the Police State watching me watching them watching me. I think Bradley Manning is a hero, but a treasonous one that should be punished according to our laws. I believe Julian Assange is doing great work; just that he is another self-righteous, self-appointed savior of our liberties and a dick. Time will tell what we learn about this Snowden dude. We don’t yet know the ends to know if they justify his means. Apparently, the whistle tune he blew was so shocking the press will only release a fraction of it. It is hard to tell, yet, just how necessary it was for Snowden to sacrifice his lap of luxury for the benefit of our perverse private texts, but we are bound to learn more.

Cue Julian Assange, who just crawled out of his Ecuadoran Embassy hole in London to propose Snowden for sainthood and to offer Wiki-Leaks up to host all the dirty little secrets of Snowden’s spilt entrails. We may very soon learn much more…

Who is Spain?
Why is Hitler?
Where are the Snowdens of yesteryear?

― Joseph Heller, Catch 22

All I have is a voice
To undo the folded lie,
The romantic lie in the brain
Of the sensual man-in-the-street
And the lie of Authority
Whose buildings grope the sky:
There is no such thing as the State
And no one exists alone;
Hunger allows no choice
To the citizen or the police;
We must love one another or die.

– W.H.Auden, September 1st, 1939

I am frequently stopped amidst frantic rant by a listener who naively inquires, “Are domestic drones really a bad thing?” They then list several reasonable roles a drone may be able to serve patrolling our skies: enforcing speed limits, scouting for forest fires, substituting for squad cars in police car chases. Aye – valid arguments, all. A drone could even peek into your car to see if you are texting while driving (illegal in some states), receiving oral pleasures while driving (I assume this is illegal) or if you exhibit visible signs of intoxication (illegal in all states)*. Police drones make for safer streets, but once the genie is out of the bottle, he is a fat bitch to cram back in.

*Mothers Against Drunk Drivers has churned out anti-intoxicated driving propaganda for decades, so this is not a concept lost on the public. Other driving restrictions may not be so clearly spelt out. Perhaps we do need a MABJD?

To Protect and To Serve and To Watch and To Record

To Protect and To Serve and To Watch and To Record

Keep in mind, dear reader, by your mere read of this paranoid conspiracy drivel on your computer screen you are being flagged by the NSA (no such agency, shhhh) as someone who reads paranoid conspiracy drivel. My new friend, Professor Erasmus of Otter Dam Military Academy, waxed woefully about how many National Security lists he must be on for just associating himself with yours truly, Vic Neverman, as well as having a sworn blood-brother who happens to be Persian. As a person of interest, Erasmus must attempt to sleep at night knowing his physical and cyber presences are always being monitored with the collected data being filed away at the NSA Spy City Compound in Utah. Once DRONES are overhead videotaping every move of interesting persons, Erasmus (not to mention your humble narrator) will cease to live in a world where privacy exists.

Imagine this – if the British Empire had drones, all of the Revolutionary Ambitions of our Founding Fathers would have been squashed like a grape (seedless, of course). If John, Paul, George and Ringo (Adams, Revere, Washington and Benny “Ringo” Franklin) had to deal with drones, all of their subversive machinations would have been for naught and we would all be speaking German right now (because the Brits wouldn’t have had the USA to bail them out of 20th Century wars). Nicht sehr gut, ja?

Assuming the inevitable – that the stage is set for a dystopian future of fascist police state policies (that is, if you doubt we already exist in such a state), I am writing a series of posts dedicated on how to maneuver unseen/unheard/unfelt and become a wallflower ventriloquist with an ace up your sleeve and a rabbit in the hat.

My first post is a nostalgic piece on Old Man Neverman and his efforts in alluding oppressive authority in the 1980s.

I will also have posts that examine the tactics of the ultimate drone lab rats – Al Qaeda. These are split into two pieces – the silly technical advice on which Russian drone-deterrents your run-of-the-mill terrorist might buy & then common “duck and run” strategies for avoiding detection from the overhead menace.

Soon, I will be posting my hypothesis that the introduction of reality television was a government plot to acclimate the American Public to eternal scrutiny of the omnipresent cameras of the Police State.

Good Luck and Godspeed!


Nevermen: the Old Man in his typical disguise of moustache and dark sunglasses

Nevermen: the Old Man in his typical disguise of moustache and dark sunglasses

Consider this an introduction, if you will, to what shall become known as the Ultimate Guide in Eluding the Omnipresent Eye of Big Brother. Eventually, this how-to opus shall grant you, dear reader, relevant guidelines to stealthily propel yourself through time &/or space in a manner worthy of the most elite contemporary paranoid. Metaphorically, we will teach you how to sneak the chill out of ice. Similely, we will show you how to be like a ninja leopard.  Literally, we will make you real sneaky.

Yet this first part is just a mere introduction – the foreplay, if you will (and why wouldn’t you), to the orgiastic splendor of enlightened evasion techniques illustrated in later parts. For now, you, said reader, shall prepare your mind for a brief history of Neverman Elusion.

A curious and creative rendition of Scylla and the swirling suck of Charybdis

A curious and creative rendition of Scylla and the swirling suck of Charybdis

When I, Vic Neverman, was but a pup suckling at the teat of an un-brainwashed counterculture, Old Man Neverman was composing a lesson on the back of a golf scorecard, “Rod’s Rules for Screwing with Smokey.” Yes, even back in those early days of the Reagan Administration, the Neverman clan could feel the cold grip of the menacing police state around their necks. Back then, as now, Old Man Neverman was well respected amongst his peer-group of smugglers, pimps and shrimpers. The knowledge he shared with his fellow island-men of Florida’s Mosquito Coast was liquid gold at the time, that is, if knowledge could be absorbed like the cheap domestic swill canned in Milwaukee these furry fellows gulped-down like Charybdis drinking-in the dribbles of sweet Scylla sweat. To “Screw with Smokey” was to get around the law. The lessons contained here-within are something scrawled in haste, something that crawled out of a time capsule reeking of history. Without history, we would never learn from our mistakes OR our victories. Well, we wouldn’t learn if not for history and of course paternity tests.

Without further explanation, here are a few of “Rod’s Rules for Screwing with Smokey”:

#3 – If Smokey pulls you over for speeding, offer him a beer from your cooler. Most times, they appreciate the chance at refreshment.

#5 – You are not going to blend in if you don’t have a mustache.

#8 – Radar Love: Smokey uses that radar to see how fast you are driving and it works by measuring vibes. So create your own counter-vibrations by cranking up the FM as loud as it will go.

#14 – I told you, Don’t trust red-head chicks.

#16 – Man, you can’t trust the Establishment, but the Reds are dicks. Best bet is to play each side off of the other.

#22 – On PanAm, they don’t let you bring your own booze, so do this: empty out some of them quart bottles of shampoo, wash out real good and fill up with your drink of choice. They can’t keep an American away from his shampoo. And if a stewardess asks why you are drinking so heavily from a bottle of shampoo, tell her to sit on your lap and you will show her.

#23 – You can’t trust your phone line. Install a CB radio in your car and hold all important conversations there.

#24 – Make sure you have a handle that Smokey won’t be suspicious of. Something silly like ‘Vanilla Ice’ will throw the hounds off your scent.

#29 – Stay away from Japanese cars. Shitty cars is the new Pearl Harbor. Stick to your Trans-Am.

#31 – Don’t drive a convertible. They are starting to fill our skies with whirly-birds, which means Smokey can see you from the sky. If you must drive a convertible, wear a ball cap brother.

NeverMum's Trans-Am

NeverMum’s Trans-Am

Once again…welcome to my house. Come freely. Go safely; and leave something of the happiness you bring.

― Bram StokerDracula

Living in the post-9/11 world is a drag if you are prone to dissidence. The United States has a hyper-active immune system, employing a host of white blood cell agencies to destroy anything remarkably unfamiliar by sending the invasive element to confinement in some secret prison or another. And eternal confinement is the best case scenario (though death-by-drone might be preferable to constant water-boarding in a Croatian cement hole). What began with the aloof Commander-in-Chief GWB after September 11th, 2001, was an acceleration of National Security into a Police State Complex. In 2008, a new Chief took over. The candidate for “change” kept Guantanamo open despite campaign promises. In fact, President Obama has done everything to expand his power and limit that of the citizen. American citizens overseas have been targeted and annihilated by Obama’s pet drones. And Obama has the right to choose to take any uncooperative American citizen and essentially bury them in a foreign cell without benefit of a trial before peers. What’s more – the federal agencies responsible for protecting the citizenry have reverted back to old policies of the agent provocateur:  just look at the case of the Cleveland Five, where a few lost-soul stoners were recruited and entrapped into becoming terrorists. The Police State is grooming their own villains and if you are not careful, some agent provocateur may very well poison your well.

Or you could heed my advice.

(at the end of this blog, I have links to anti-National Defense Act and a great article on the “Cleveland 5” by Rolling Stone)

Rule 1 (because rules always come in multitudes and you need to begin somewhere): choose your friends, do not allow them to choose you. Be wary of anyone’s approach. Small talk is for assholes – do not engage in it. Do not trust anyone who backs their car into a parking space. People that back into parking spaces are assholes too – their disposition for reversing into spaces has to do with paranoia at their own duplicity, which is what drives them to such lengths to allow a quick-ish getaway. But enough of the small talk, avoid the senseless conversations with strangers. If they insist on small talk, engage in some alternative lunatic fringe speak to frighten them away. And if they do not fright – they are most exceptionally dangerous.

FOR EXAMPLE: whenever a stranger engages me on the weather or says good morning or something painfully ordinary like that, I revert to a discussion on PanspermiaPanspermia, at its heart, is a relatively sound scientific concept. In fact, unless you believe some unmoved mover created all that is heaven & earth, Panspermia is likely the key to the origins of life on Earth. Panspermia is a concept about how life began on this planet and the assumption that it derived from an extra-terrestrial (be it bacterial shite or fungus spore from some meteorite) element. Still, if you mention Panspermia enough times in a given paragraph, especially during a conversation with a nosey neighbor, chances are the irritant will likely excuse themselves and turn-tail. So Panspermia it is. “Looks like we may get some rain…” a wayward pedestrian mentions to me. I respond with, “Perhaps more Panspermia?” Note emphasis on the “sperm” root of the word. End of conversation, close the curtains because the scene is over.

Rule 2: do not trust those that are too closely like you. If you are on the grid, there is a file on you. The file has all of your credit card purchases, all of your library check-outs, all of your medical files and somewhere in Utah at Crypto-City the NSA has stored every single text, email and phone conversation you have had since 2004. It would be ridiculously easy for the powers-that-be to create a doppelgänger of you. Imagine – your own reflection walking into your life and wanting to be friends. “You like Battlestar Gallactica? So do I! Let’s be friends (forms the shape of a heart with hands).” This guy is an asshole and you do not need any more friends. Just move along…

Vic’s 6’3″ Doppleganger, or Father and/or DB Cooper

There is nothing more frightening to me than the thought of a doppelgänger. I am uncertain if I could co-exist with a fellow-me. A generational gap would be acceptable. Old Man Neverman and myself were essentially the same entity, just years apart. Part of me is suspicious that the old man wasn’t ME – Vic myself – sent back into time to swim out into the Gulf of Mexico and rescue younger me from certain peril, only to stick around as a father figure. I remember it well – my being a child and stupid and lost at sea and he, this elder me, mustachioed and swimming out to the rescue. But now that I realize it is unlikely I will never grow another 3 inches in height and that wearing a mustache is not coming into vogue anytime soon, I have come to accept that the doppelgänger posing as my father may very well have been a different person from me entirely. Perhaps even my biological father, if not DB Cooper. Or so I suspect…

Karlo Dubacki, a carpet salesman once accused of being Vic Neverman based on the resemblance of the mustache.

Either way, doppelgängers are dangerous. Of course, I once gravely feared doppelgängers because I was convinced that for a lad such as me, there could only be one possible lady candidate for mating (or at least willing to practicing the act of mating). If there were two of me and only one woman who would even conceive of a potential companionship with one of us, my likelihood of winning her over would be cut in half by the doubling of mes, you see. Since those dark years, however, I have learned that despite my paranoid schizophrenic behavior and my sharp canine teeth and my propensity for impersonating yeti, there are actually dozens upon dozens of women agreeable to shack up with the likes of me. Of course, many of them may very well be agent provocateurs.

Charlie NeverDog

This is what we writers call “a segue”.

Rule 3: be on the lookout for agent provocateurs. They may come from anywhere at any time. This is why I say to not allow others to choose you as a friend. I tend to distrust anyone new that arrives into my general sphere of proximity. Such distrust is helpful. Yet, there is a tragic flea in my mustard, dancing in an increasingly slow somber salsa as its wings cease to flutter against the yellowed anatagony – my flaw: I tend to go stupid in the company of beautiful women. I say this with hesitation because obviously I am showing my hand to all those card holders who oppose me. They now know all they need to defeat the mighty paranoia of Vic Neverman is to produce a lovely lady to twirl my sound sense into knots of nonsense. So be it. If I took half of the notches out of my headboard, I would likely be a much more prosperous individual. Would it be worth it? The core of this Vic responds with a resounding NO.

Rule 4: just get the hell off the grid. Jesse Ventura ran off to Mexico. You can too. In fact, I have decided to dedicate a new topic of conversation on my blog: “Escape the Grid” where I will outline some of my favorite places to escape to.

Stay tuned friend…

For an article on “the Cleveland Five”, a band of loser Occupy Wall Street protestors who were molded into terrorists, see below:

To know more about PANDA – People Against the National Defense Act, see below:

Slightly south of noon, I lunched with my Puerto Rican psychic sidekick from Milwaukee and her Miscellasian stationary-bike trainer (he was miscellaneous Asian, but our soup was specifically Vietnamese) on what was a visually pleasant Floridian day. It was visually pleasant, the heat was oppressive. The late spring temperature was hot, sure, but the oppressive heat I refer to is the omnipresent eye of the police state. Take for instance the dozen cameras overhead, protruding from the ceiling in this assumingly inconspicuous soup joint. Take for another instance the old lady across the street, smirking at us from beneath her white sun hat, waving as she held a sign up “god bless you”. I scowled at her, the smirking antagonist and her veiled, jumbled, threats. The voice of attempted reason rose out of my Puerto Rican psychic sidekick from Milwaukee, insisting the woman’s message was straight-forward, but I countered: might the letters of her message be rearranged to read “y u do blogss?” as an inquisition into my line of business, that being the blogging business, specifically the conspiracy blogging business? Yes. It very well might. This elder thought she knew what I know and she wanted me to know she knew it.

Oh sure, you may call me ‘paranoid’. Just don’t call me ‘late to happy hour’. Of course, they called me paranoid after the drone assassination of the American jihadist in Yemen and I asked how long until drones are gunning down Americans domestically. Now where are we? We have flying lawnmowers patrolling the border and twice this spring I have seen a ‘domesticated’ drone (you can take the Beast out of Kandahar, but can you take the Kandahar out of the Beast) patrolling overhead in Central Florida. Who is paranoid now? And what’s next? The biggest cloud-humping spy blimp you could ever imagine. And it is just the beginning.

Northrop Grumman is about to beta test its Long Endurance Multi-Intelligence Vehicle, known affectionately as ‘LEMV’, a helium-bloated robot cloud the size of the Death Star and equipped with any and every surveillance device you can imagine in your perverted little mind. The prototype can carry 20 tons of supplies… or bombs or tear gas or ping-pong balls filled with sleeping gas to drop on an Occupy Movement near you. Future versions will be able to carry much more. The first test for das Über-blimp, according to Danger Room, is a trip south from Jersey to Florida before being outfitted for a transatlantic flight to battlefronts over there.

Over there, the Outremer, for now… For later, who knows? Fortunately, for Vic & Friends, the super-blimp has its kryptonite… bad weather. Bring on hurricane season!

Spy Blimp illustration courtesy of Danger Room

…the sheer wanton delight in killing, of adding my distinguished head to his trophy room, of proving his mastery and seeing the fear in the eyes of a beaten opponent at his mercy – I know all about it…

– Flashman and the Tiger, George MacDonald Fraser

I once lured my opponent into a trap – a meeting in Austin, TX, where I was to befuddle him with booze and lead him quietly into oblivion. It was a well-orchestrated plan to rid myself of this government contracted spook who was not only monitoring my family, but had plans to steal away the NeverSister (sure, she was a willing theft, but how willing really when the wool of the wolf’s sheep coat was over her eyes, blinding her to the tyrannical ruthlessness of this agent of some fascist antidisestablishmentarian agenda?). He was a threat to me and my family. Even if my paranoia was wrong (which it rarely is) and he wasn’t assigned by his overlords to derail my endeavors or affirm my mortality, the existence of this outspoken element (me) of the ‘lunatic fringe’ (or so we conspiracy theorists are so endearingly termed by the District suits) as his future brother-in-law would bring grave threat to the sound construct of his spy merc career. In short, even if his superiors didn’t ask for him to eliminate me, it would still be a pretty good idea for him to do so. So call me proactive. Or don’t call me at all. I was to rid me of him before he rid him of me. Unfortunately, as it is prone to do, Austin disemboweled my bearings and my plan backfired after a trip to Juan in a Million for a breakfast burrito. The spook has had the upper-hand ever since, especially after he seized the NeverSister’s hand in marriage and created the ‘Spy vs Spy’ (black hat/white hat) hybrid that is the NeverNiece by merging his Holy Roman Empire blood with that of the heathen barbaric horde of the Nevermen. Yes, my great antagonist had gotten the best of me by far.

A Loose Truce is found by Neverman and his government contracted spook of a brother-in-law as they explore Abita Springs Brew Pub in Louisiana

Years later, we are speeding in his government sponsored SUV, back towards Texas.

The game has changed, however. My momentum was building after I foiled his little plot to sink me into some central Florida jail cell (see TransAmericana2: the Shamrock Shakedown). As our journey began, I openly accused him, my government contracted spook of a brother-in-law, of framing me of a mystery crime. How does he react (behind those eternally dark sunglasses)? The wolf snarls his version of a smile. It is all one big joke to him. This trickster god, he, this Old Man Wolf who stole the moon from Sun and sold it to Sky. He laughs.

And so we drive. In Mobile, we stop. Then we drive again. As we neared the Mississippi border, a badged thug in a Alabama sheriff’s deputy car pulls parallel with us as we head west on I-10 going 75mph. The government contracted spook behind the wheel of our SUV turns to his left and makes some sort of unspoken communication with the deputy in the squad car who then turns on the afterburners and accelerates from 75 to 100 mph in less than 5 seconds. Just another example of the web of the police state keeping an eye on its own. A collective eye, as the badged thug was likely just one of many. Who knows how many spy blimps, satellites and killer drones were monitoring the progress of their golden boy and his ne’er-do-well brother-in-law, Vic Neverman?

Thursday Evening the following comment was posted on the “Contact Vic Neverman” page from someone calling themselves “Reverend Chette Williams”. It is worth posting as a stand-alone blog and so I present it here. Beware, the contents are paranoid:


Hello! My name is Chette, and your blog has piqued my interest. As a former member of a certain three letter organization, which I will not divulge at the present, I can tell you that you are being watched…very closely. I know because they came after me when I threatened to talk about various things I had seen, and operations I was involved with over the years. Fortunately, for my own well-being, I still have contacts within “they” that keep me apprised of their various dealings. I don’t know everything of course, being that I’ve separated myself from their grip and escaped the machine, but I know enough to throw some caution your way.

My former job as a Profiler gives me some insight into things that may help you. First of all, you can just about guarantee they already know who you are. Now, I figure for the time being you will be in what is called, in layman’s terms, a controlled monitoring situation. This means they’ll monitor you and your activities for approximately six months to gauge if you are a threat. Likely this phase is either complete, or has been in ongoing for quite some time. I won’t go into the details how they monitor you, as it would probably just scare the shit out of you, but they’ll leave no stone unturned. My experience tells me it wasn’t hard for them to find you.

Just by reading your blog and browsing some pictures I can tell you this, and you stop when I’m wrong: You’re likely a white, early to mid-thirties male. You are unmarried and live alone, probably in an apartment or rental home in the city. You are likely from Florida, or a near-by state, although you have traveled extensively in the past (something which interests “they” very much). Much of your travel has to out of the country, some to “unfriendly” sovereign nations. You drive a foreign made vehicle, likely a sedan – something that doesn’t stick out to the casual observer. You have a full-time job that keeps you occupied during the day, but some travel is associated with your work. That’s all I’ll add for now.

Hopefully, I have gotten your attention. Now for the scary part, which I saved for last to make sure it has maximum effect. There is someone close to you that is part of this monitoring. If the monitoring phase is complete, it may be someone that was either briefly close to you, or tried to get close to you. I don’t know who because they have many independent agents (really independent contractors) doing their work for them. My guess would be a girl, possibly a co-worker or acquaintance that you recently met. This girl would have likely not stuck around long. In fact, she may have come and gone without much explanation. But, she was close enough to you to gather the intel she needed, and maybe to plant some monitoring devices. They have at their disposal the most sophisticated technology, things that you couldn’t yet imagine. But, the same things work that have always worked, and to a single male in his mid 30′s that is likely a fresh piece of pussy. I could be wrong, but I do know how they operate.

Now, I have to run as I don’t wont to include too many trigger words in this commentary to tip “they” off, but I’ll return at the right time to fill you in on some additional details, and if I hear any chatter being thrown your way, you’ll be notified. By the way, what does “S.I.F.” mean?

I forwarded the above to some of my closest counsel and below are their comments:

Government Contracted Spook of a Brother in Law: Classic – good thing your spartan lifestyle allows you to notice any contraband left in the lair…

Des Riley: I’d still invest in a bug sweeper …

½ of Brothers Von Trior: Dude, Outstanding, truly outstanding. I am going to share this with my brother. He will love it. He always assumes “they” are watching, listening etc… Well if you disappear one day, at least we now have a lead…

AC Huxley: Well no offense Vic but if any of my tax dollars have been put towards monitoring you I’m leaving the US.

Raz Kelly: Awesome. Guess im not the girl spy as i am still around
(of course if Raz were the “girl spy”, this would be exactly what she would want me to think… a ruse to throw off my scent)

Finally, here is my response posted on my “Contact” page:

Hello Reverend,

I appreciate your interest and the warnings most dire. You do have my attention, yet I wonder now what you mean to do with it. If you were truly a helpful friend, would you hide behind a very public identity? One need not spend a lot of effort to learn much of “Reverend Chette Williams” and might I suggest that you, Sir, are not this man?

Certainly, I am no stranger to alter egos, but I do stray from impersonating very real identities. I am curious as to why you chose to forge the identity of a corrupted man of the cloth, unless it may be a parallel of your own past. A former agent of some government alphabet soup who had fallen into dishonor? Then what am I to you? A chance at redemption?

It is a very dangerous game we each play. I eagerly anticipate your further correspondence.

As far as SIF – this is of course an akronym for “secret internet fatty”, a risk associated with e-dating when a profile underestimates their own weight. Are you suggesting that you, yourself, are not as you seem?


Vic Neverman

Alas! It is I, Vic Neverman, your faithful navigator upon the high treachery seas of conspiracy theory. Fresh, I am, back onto the societal grid. Fresh in every sense but scent, for my time off of said grid was entire hours of living in the vast scrub brush sands of the Florida pine lands and at least that long since I have, indeed, bathed. So quiet the alarm until I might clean the fresh kill out of my fingernails (the trail mix did not last long, except for the raisin particles embedded in the tips of my digits until being hammered free upon this here keyboard).

During my time of respite in the scrub, I received a few familiar, yet suspicious, visitors to my cozy wilderness camp. The first was that government-contracted spook of a brother-in-law to tell me he has been reassigned out west (likely to oversee the government bunker a mile beneath Denver International Airport where he, the triaged Executive/Legislative branches, and Tim Tebow will be spending the next Christmas holiday just in case the Mayan Apocalypse theories* prove true). My second visitor was long time ally, Raz Kelly, whose true intentions are still suspect due to her ties to both China and Israel (while she has saved my skin multiple times, her passport reads like a Tom Clancy novel and she’s had her gun pointed at my mid-section for the better part of the last decade). During these visits, I would show the guest my favorite spots – the idyllic view of the river from a gator sunning bed, the bamboo forest I hide within when I hear wild boar, and the tree I climb to view the campground where hippie backpackers celebrate the wilderness with orgiastic splendor. The questions from my guests inevitably arrive – ‘how long are you going to stay off the grid?’, ‘who are you hiding from this time?’, and ‘why are you wearing a fake beard over your real beard?’

*Note – the Mayan Apocalypse theories are inspired by the calendar of the Maya, but the theories are proposed, written, published by opportunistic gringo swindlers.

The primary reasoning behind my self-imposed exile is the rise of duel threats: the National Defense Authorization Act (NDAA) and proposed online piracy legislation. The NDAA is certainly most terrifying, but it was the arrival of the online piracy acts that sent me for the hills. Not that I am a pirate, by any stretch, but the anti-piracy legislation would have granted wide censorship privileges to an undisclosed power-that-be to deafen the voice of your humble navigator, one Vic Neverman. Fortunately, the pirates and my rants live on… at least until new legislation comes along that is more appealing to Google and Wikiwhatever.

While I still have a voice, let’s discuss this damn NDAA that Obama claimed he was going to veto before performing an about-face, signing the NDAA into existence on New Year’s Eve when the American public was busy congregating on the piss-and-champagne sick-slickened streets like herds of sticky-hooved cattle being led to the slaughter to the melody of Madonna as sung by Lady Gaga (I shiver in socio-phobic dread at the televised sight). Why would Obama be so discrete about signing this Act into Law? Because it brings the United States one step closer to a dystopian police state under the shadow of Obama’s drones patrolling overhead.

Upon return to the grid, I find a comment from a wayward friend – “Razor” Callahan, a championship meat smoker and reformed smuggler out of Florence, Alabama, “There needs to be an update to the novel 1984.” Indeed, I respond to Razor, and it shall be called “2012”.

At the risk of becoming the NDAA’s first victim, I shall expand upon this horrifying Act (with the ACLU on speed dial in case I am cut-off amidst typing stream). The NDAA lifts our right to Habeas Corpus, which is a Latin way of saying our protection against being imprisoned unlawfully. The United States Constitution very effectively demands, “the privilege of the writ of habeas corpus shall not be suspended, unless when in cases of rebellion or invasion they public safety may require it.” So what rebellion or invasion is there to justify such a suspension? None other than our figurative ‘War on Terror’. So until this conceptual battle is formally declared over, we are susceptible to unlawful imprisonment courtesy of the NDAA.

While the current administration has demonstrated great proficiency at blowing up terrorists (22 of the 30 most terroristicish, Obama claims), this conceptual ‘War’ is no closer to drawing to a close because of the collateral damage is, in fact, expanding the terror on both sides. Plus, this ‘War’ is going gangbusters for the Military Industrial Complex, whose special interests are highly looked after in Washington. Long story short – we’ve lost this constitutional right ofhabeas corpus for the foreseeable future.

Another Act that served as a second option if the NDAA did not pass is the Enemy Expatriation Act, which would effectively turn homebred enemies into ex-citizens and export them to some Romanian dungeon (subterranean Bucharest is lovely this time of year). The NDAA did pass, however, and now allows any American suspicious characters to be arrested and detained indefinitely. Who qualifies as ‘suspicious’? Colonel Lawrence Wilkerson, formerly Chief of Staff for Colin Powell, was interviewed on Russia Today last month and claimed the NDAA would be used against Occupy protestors. Whatever the NDAA is used for, be it to arrest protestors or ornery bloggers, the trial would not be in a public forum with a jury of peers, but rather held before a military tribunal.

I’ve reached out to my off-the-grid mentor, a socialist libertarian (the political persuasion that occurs when extreme left meets extreme right, otherwise known as “anarchist”) living in Montana, and he mentioned how up-in-arms the local militia-friendly NRA crowd is up there over the NDAA. This survivalist guru said that the Department of Defense (or whoever the unspecified judge of suspicion is in these matters) could imprison him based off his weapon arsenal and stock of food supply. Of course, his anti-government remarks do not help his cause, but I trust him. It would have been real easy for my visit to his cabin to end with his wife gutting me with her squirrel knife and their leaving my remains to the wolves in the Bob Marshall Wilderness and pawning off my belongings in Missoula. My mere existence is proof of their neighborliness. I will definitely speak to their character, but then, whose going to believe me if I too am suspect?

Suddenly, the Florida scrub brush doesn’t seem so cozy. The palmettos appear too short to offer cover from the drones and spy blimps overhead. Perhaps it is time to offer fealty to the government-contracted spook brother-in-law of mine in hopes he can get me a cubby hole under Cheyenne Mountain to hide.

It is a paranoid new world we live in…