A Taste from; The Many Unnatural Lives of Scott Solomon Dean

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“We serial killers are your sons, we are your husbands, we are everywhere. And there will be more of your children dead tomorrow.”
Ted Bundy



    “There are real monsters in this life but they are not out there in the darkness somewhere just out of eyesight. The real monsters are sitting right next to you smiling and laughing the whole time they are thinking on how many ways they wish to kill you. The real monsters are entwined in the society of humanity since the dawn of time.”
Raven Blackstone



    “I knew there was something odd with me when I was a small child. Other kids would not have nothing to do with me. It would come to me in just a short few years that I thought I had a monster within me. Then at true revelation struck me, damn, I’m the demon within. I accepted, embraced, and loved my bloodthirsty insatiable appetites upon all I would cross without care or reason.”
Brandon “The Worm” Reed



    “I lost my virginity while inside a woman and then immediately starting killing her. As I was doing so, I realized there are far greater pleasures than sex could ever offer me. I simply followed my strong urges. I became a god over who lives and who dies.”
Johnathan Knepp



Introduction

Standing upon Mount Moriah are two men, both wearing their white hard hats and their matching Corp of Engineers shirts. The oldest in silver hair and sharp blue eyes is rolling up the overall plans of a major project. Behind them a small surveying crew doing their work just out of earshot of the two.
    

“So, you’re on board with the plan or what?” The older said snidely.
    

The younger man looking rather pale from this immoral plan. “Yeah, you actually want me to go with that? You want to only move the headstones and leave the rotted bones right where they’re at?”
    

The older man turned to face the younger, “Listen slick, it isn’t like your goddamned grandmother is among the dead buried down there with all the other whores. Mount Moriah Cemetery is just some fucking forgotten place in the annals of local history, superstition, and any other redneck beliefs. The goddamned rotting bodies stay right where they’re at and we’ll move the stones to the new location.”

The older man paused only for a second. “If you can’t be a part of this, then you’re off the team. Besides, you like being married to my daughter, don’t you?” It is nothing less than a viable threat.


“Frenchy, what are you gonna do, take my wife way from me if I don’t agree to this unspeakable bullshit of yours?”
    

“Taking away? No, I was thinking more along the lines of her being a widow. Accidents happen all the fucking time, Bob.  This is a huge project, you may find yourself prone to one such fatality or something.” Frenchy paused with a determined grin froth with rage painted upon his otherwise, white face.

“Look, I brought you on so that it would help you both financially and making a goddamned man out of you. This would be the first big project you have ever been on. I won’t allow you to fuck things up here – too much riding on this – too much money to be had wasting it on bullshit. The getting is good, so for god sakes, pull your head out of your ass and join the team or you can be lying face down with those there at Mount Moriah Cemetery in an unmarked grave all covered by three feet of crushed rock and gravel with another two feet of reinforced concrete. Go along with my plans or simply be a result of an accident. Hell, I’ll even dig the grave with the traditional six feet of earth for you Bob. Now how would that be?” Frenchy’s eyes looked like two slits of rage.
    

“So, what’s it gonna be, Bob? I don’t have all fucking day goddamn it. Make up your mind now you fucking cocksucker.”
    

Bob Weber browbeat and threatened by his own father-in-law wiped the sweat off of his own brow with his white handkerchief. “Okay, all right, I’m in.” Bob looked up to his father-in-law shaking his head affirmatively.
    

“Well alright then…” Frenchy then put his hand on Weber’s shoulder and whispered in Bob’s ear. “And if I catch your prick in another woman or that boyfriend of yours, I’ll kill you myself and I’ll put your body down a hole that no one shall ever find – not even God could find you.”
    

Weber stunned in the realization that Frenchy is already well aware of his two affairs also shook his head affirmatively in both overwhelming shame and wonderment.
    

“Good then, I won’t have to bury them next to your grave down there where the new outer parking lot will be,” Frenchy smiled ever so coldly as he removed his firm grip on Weber’s shoulder.
    

“Fly right, son, and we’ll both be fucking rich. You’ll see.” Frenchy turned away and walked up to his white air-conditioned pickup truck then driving away from the scene.  

Weber watched him go and realizing that no matter what and how he personally felt, his father-in-law had him under Frenchy’s thumb, and there would be no way of getting out from under it.

Then like a bolt of lightning, a though entered his mind, “Accidents happen all the time on major worksites. My fucking father-in-law could easily be an accidental casualty.” A smile broke across Weber’s face.

The massive construction of the Whispering Pines Sanitarium with its own super-max facility will begin shortly after the transfer of the headstones and all things above ground belonging to the Mount Moriah Cemetery. These opportunities will afford Weber the chance to not only get out from under Frenchy’s thumb, but to shatter it completely.


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Cracked Actor Coming Soon!

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“There are always those that say hindsight is twenty-twenty. In my life this is not true in the least. My hindsight is in all truth, a bit fuzzy, distorted, and, at times, based upon actual events. Fortunate for you that this account is in all things, grimly true. The story yet to unfold is contritely factual, and for me, it is crystal clear. For those that cannot stomach strong adult content – Exit doors are on the left and let us who are adults continue unabated and uninterrupted. I, we, thank you in advance…

It is strange on how a broken mind such as my own works. I can certainly remember what I had for breakfast yesterday, cannot remember names of people for shit, and some memories well, should be better off left alone in the boggy swamp of my mind. Some memories are so clear to me that it really does seem like it recently happened – like yesterday so it were.”  Excerpt from “Cracked Actor.”

A True Telling of an Egyptian Ghost Story

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I don’t believe in ghosts…

You see, I know they are among us. So, there is no voting, or thinking of the possibilities for me. There is a difference of knowing of the path and those like me that walk the path.

Having said this, I have been a lightening rod of the paranormal since I can remember. Yes, I have experienced the darker forces in this life. I also experienced things that I just cannot explain into words with the shocking reality that there is a whole other world that is somehow entwined with us. The only way that I can put it into any form of reference is the simple fact, you, yourself must experience these things and then we can talk.

Just take a moment and close your eyes and imagine you are on a highway that winds through the thick woods on a moonless night. Suddenly caught  in your headlights you see something that raises the littlest of hairs on the back of your neck. Your reaction is seriously impeded because of this supernatural or crypto zoological creature blinded by your oncoming headlights. You lock up the brakes and throwing yourself into a skid, and then into a stop right there in the middle of the road. Seconds later, you get out of the car to look. Whatever it was is not there anymore. You naturally want to doubt yourself as the adrenaline is almost causing you to get sick to your stomach. You may even look for any signs of tracks or evidence if you are so bold to do so. Alas, there is nothing, no evidence, nothing but that fleeting unexplainable experience that will change your mind, and of course, change your life forever.

This story is not a fiction to entertain. It goes deeper in life-changing events from the actual paranormal activities. Some believe in Angels and Demons, Heaven and Hell. I do not, I can not for there are too many signs and proof of an afterlife that goes far beyond any religion or the cold grave of our mortal remains. However, there are dark (malevolent for those who know the meaning) spirits and those of a lighter, much lighter spirits, (the Benevolent Ones). Some are perceived as angry as I experienced in Egypt of an Egyptian Soldier who stolen an American Cooling Fan. Whatever these people were in this life carries forward in the afterlife and may echo through eternity. The whole myriad of human emotions carry with this energy of the person. I have experienced this all too often in my past.

Now back to this story…

The young Egyptian Soldier knowing that his power source would not work for the fan properly thought that he could simply get some American electricity. In doing so, he caused his own demise. You seem, he attempted to tap into our power running from up at the hilltop I was at through the desert floor. These insolated lines carried a fatal 2400 volt of current. The Equipment I was using is classified but I can tell you it was dangerously old. The substation finally opened the troubling short-circuit before complete failure.

I immediately phoned down to the American side of this site and asked what the hell were they doing with my power I was generating and keeping things working. Those guys down there knew absolutely nothing about jack shit. I really thought the problem was coming from my fellow Airmen. They caused more blackouts than I could count while there on my tour of 181 days. Nevertheless, they informed me that it was not them (this time). However, my station up all alone sitting on a hilltop looking over a 4,000 year old trade route. I began thinking as my heart raced with the possibilities that one of the members of the caravan may have stumbled upon the power cables. Regardless, I just knew not to reset the substation which was too hot anyways — The main breaker would not reset because of the heat. It was that bad. There are regulations and standards that are emplace for safety. The pit in my stomach hit me hard, that I remembered clearly.

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Now, I grabbed my trusty big black Mag Light the kind that uses something like six d-cell batteries. The main base is far down and across the desert below noticed I was down. No strobes, the beacon red lights to warn air traffic of the doom of this high point. Besides, tradesmen used the light as a lighthouse as if the caravans where ships passing through the night. There were very seldom any caravans at night leaving or going to the nearby village. Still, I found myself hoping beyond all hope it wasn’t any of them.

I was radioed and told that help was coming as I have already begun to trace the path of these insolated high voltage lines lying on the ground on foot. Three thick black power lines on the sand — This was done a long time before I ever got there and so fucking against any American Electrical Code. These black cables were nothing less than the 20th century versions of Asps, the vipers of these ancient lands.

Asps, these venomous snakes that took countless of lives throughout the eons or in this case, sands of time in the most literal sense. Us Americans called these vipers, “Two-Steppers” for the simple fact that a healthy man would take about two steps after a single bite and fall to the ground and in seconds, die.

Meanwhile…

I saw better with my flashlight directed away from me and using the sky’s brilliance, you can actually see galaxies with the naked eye. I let my eyes adjust to the night and proceeded to easily follow the lines a safe distance away from them all the way down to the base of the desert floor. The trucks were coming up slowly from afar as I eventually came upon the scene, the problem, and the reason why the substation went down.

Just before my eyes about ten yards in front of me I can smell the burnt flesh, hair, and the rubber to include the complete destruction of the thick copper wiring. The odors would knock anyone around and was like hitting a wall. A very dangerous one at that.

I remembered that I turned my flashlight to the grim scene. There lying before me was a smoldering human charred body completely consumed by the deadly high voltage. His body must have burned completely through by the time I got down the hill. I did remember seeing a dim glow before I trekked down. I turned my attention to what I was doing so I wouldn’t end up falling off the path and leading to one hell of a gravity check at the bottom. Though this orange dark glow, well, it was gone by the time I hit the desert floor and I did not realize when I stood alone up there I saw the end of a life come to an abrupt end.

I stood there in silence as shook my head as I covered my nose and mouth. I then regained my composure and steadied my voice knowing by now there were many ears peeled to that frequency. I radioed the grave situation in to the group coming up in their vehicles. I could hear far passed them, a siren far off in the distance. But it the medics that would arrive would be too late.

The high voltage going to ground turned the sandy area around this low ranking Egyptian Soldier’s body about six feet in diameter to absolute glass.

The trucks from behind slowed down and before I knew it, ten people were standing around as two of the men removed their hats using them to puked in the meshed material that acted more like a strainer catching only the chunks of whatever they ate and as for the rest oozing out and littered the sand beneath them. I had to turn away as seeing them puke would affect me and my gagging reflexes were on high alert. I managed to keep it all down myself. Then a woman fainted and fell to the sand as no one paid any attention while fixated at the ghastly sight except for me since I was facing her at that point. I heard her whimper, then a gasp, and watched her body and the inevitable “thud” as she hit the sand.

It was all good, at least for me. You see, I didn’t like her much so I let her lay there in her frail state. She was a gossiper, and a pass-around type. “Promiscuous” had to be her middle name. I thought ever so briefly at times of when she arrives home to her family, she would be using that same mouth of hers to kiss her children and husband with – Damn… 

Besides, she kind of reminded me of the late Farrah Fawcett with all that feathered hair minus the great ass and wonderful breasts. She certainly had a pretty low public opinion of ill repute.

Then from behind me, “Is he dead…?” I turned from the fainted woman nearly rolling my eyes at such an idiot question to an obvious answer.

You know, some people say the dumbest things at times, and this is one of those times. “You wanna go ahead and check his fucking pulse, Hondo?” I quipped.

“Hey asshole, I out-rank you! I spent more time in the Chow Hall than you have in your entire career!” I chuckled at that as it showed.

“Yeah, I believe you, you fat ass bastard.” I was getting to the point that the entire United States Air Force was beginning to be overrun by a mob of ass clowns, and maybe just maybe, I should consider doing something else.

I turned and walked all the way back, first stepping over the fainted female the one without an ass – That should be a crime alone. I got to where I needed to be and waited for the word to reset everything.

Now, whither or not you believe this — I personally could care less. I will say, I wish it never have happened at all.

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It was a couple of hours later and from the top I can see that more people arrived to recover the body and a crew began repairing the lines. I knew that it would take them the rest of the night – I really had a vote of ill-confidence with the expertise of some of these Civil Engineers. I must explain, there are two species of humans on these classified operations, fuck-ups as being the Neanderthal Class and those of sharp minds and thinks way outside any given box that are in a constant state of frustration. I might add that I was totally unmediated.

I am the latter of these two groups.

Having said that thus far, as it turned out, it would take nearly a full day before the repairs would be completed and signed off as, “Good to go, Taylor. Throw that goddamned switch!”

Meanwhile, that late evening, I wrote up a classified safety and incident report right away. I wrote it in great detail while it was all fresh in my mind only after throwing my clothing in the wash machine standing in the nude still smelling fowl by the burnt body. I took a nice long shower but it just didn’t seem like it was enough.

After my shower, I remember my two kids, (Goats given to me as a gift by the people of a local village so they became property of the United States Air Force.) came inside and acting rather skittish. These goats were house-trained. I went back to my writing up the reports on an old typewriter — This was 1986 deep in Southern Egypt.

Late that night or early morning hours I began going to sleep as a gentle breeze from the west came through and was sweet and welcomed. Then before slipping off into a deep awaiting sleep, I noticed how bitter the breeze was then and turning colder by the second. Then as I noticed that we were not alone. I literally felt the angry spirit and with the atrocious strong odor, it pulled my sheets right off of my bed that I used to cover up at those summer nights as a second layer of fly protection with my Mosquito Net. Consequently, I never saw one single blood sucking Mosquito.

I watched the sheet ascend to the air high above me and then guided down by the invisible hand in scaring the kids (Goats) out of the building.

I grabbed the white sheet from the air as if someone was holding it. Something indeed was holding it other than myself. Knowing that this is the spirit that belongs to the charred man. I know he didn’t speak any English. Bad on my Arabic, I tried to convey my personal condolences of his death as I stood there literally naked. Besides, I figured this spirit saw enough naked men to include himself. I don’t know if it were because of my strong physique or the fact of my strong will or courage to confront this troubling spirit.

Perhaps a bit of both.

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For three days, I was plagued by this spirit and so were my kids. But, this isn’t the end but only the beginning of the paranormal events. Things just seemed to escalate and so did the ever-growing rumors spreading like an uncontrollable prairie fire from far below.

You see, this angry spirit also went down and hassled or spooking the shit out of the electricians and some of them abandon the job site driving as fast as they could back to the American side of the site. This was the reason as to the length of repairs. You see, the repairs should have been completed under two hours in daylight under a ghost-free normal environment.

Shit, I couldn’t get anyone to come up to the hilltop. The water delivery, rations, and such just was not coming up because of the paranormal activity. I had to drive down to pick up everything. The American side again, was ablaze with stories of the charred Egyptian Soldier.

Oh, I remember the whisperings going on as I came to get resupplied. I felt as if they were all treating me as if I had a plague or something.

The story of what happened kept getting better every time it was told. The stories took a life of its own as it grew further away from the actual events.

Moreover, others were also affected by the ghost and the rumors thereof kept building up some sort of hysteria as a direct result. You see, even the Egyptian Traders and their camels loaded down however, they didn’t stop. Nothing travels as fast as bad news  like cobalt-pressed lightening.

It seems that those who did not believe in the paranormal almost became ghosts themselves with accidents and mishaps. The stories, the sightings, the hysteria took a life of all its own. People were saying all kinds of shit. Even the Roman Catholic Chaplain had a bumper crop of souls that needed saving and record setting baptisms stemming from the paranormal pandemonium.  The American side of this site were in small numbers to start with.

Now because of my particular job, I can go off-site and visit the village and a limited few that could. I decided to pack up the kids and head down to civilization of sorts. I remember looking forward with meeting with the folks of the village.

Once I got to the village I found it all eerie quiet as I could feel all eyes upon me. I walked up to the village Sheik standing before the ancient Mosque he served. I told him pretty much of what he already have come to know. Still, I told him about it as exactly what had happened.

He then rode back with me to bless the exact site where the man died. He then demanded to see the Site Commander which is in the Egyptian Army side. An equal to a Brigadier General, this officer, a Muslim himself looked at me as I stood there outside my vehicle in attention and saluting. He, the general walked up to me in perfect English while returning my salute in his own lengthy convenience cursing the whole tragedy. I got the feeling from this man as if I were to blame for it all. Maybe I was a bit paranoid or something. I wrote it off as such immediately.

After all, I didn’t steal a fan and take a folding pocket knife to tap into a high-voltage power line. In any court of any reasonable kind, I was not to be at fault. That was what I was rationalizing and telling myself. Still, it didn’t help matters with me much.

Even the Egyptian Army had sightings of this ghost. One of the men, didn’t know the that the electrocuted man he was talking ever so briefly in passing was dead by some twelve hours previously!

That would definitely be a real shocker – pun intended.

The Sheik then blessed the remains that were in a body bag ion a huge walk-in freezer. The remains were to be sent to a village far to the north for the grieving family and those of his village.

Then the Sheik wanted to visit my classified hill top in which permission was given by the general who was the supreme commander of the old site that did the granting and in translation, I was under orders to do so.

I drove off as the general was covered in a cloud of choking dust. Yeah, I can be a real fucking prick at times. We then travelled up to the top of this facility of mine. I was the only Airman that was there. I had this bitch all to myself with the kids.

Now as the Sheik and I walked into the facility right there before our own eyes, he saw, and smelling the offending stench of burnt flesh that seems to take days to leave your nostrils – Well, I can see the Sheik was overcome. Both of us seeing clearly at the dark specter now slowly walking towards us. I earnestly was glad that the apparition showed up and was seen by this man of Islam, the ever frightening Sheik.

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Now, the Sheik was certainly stunned in awe and this is understandable as he shook like a leaf. It took him a couple of moments to regain himself and his purpose. He, by the way, spoke excellent English and said that this spirit is in suffering, as well as in an understandable mourning. Angry because he is no longer in the realm of the living but struggling to remain here just the same.

Consequently, I figured that the apparition was sticking around to exact his revenge. But that is just one man’s thinking there.

The Sheik did his spiritual bit — Though, I am atheist, I knew that whatever the Sheik was saying on behalf of the ghost, it was the ghost who was the believer and obviously gave it peace. Peace enough to evaporate, peace enough that the smell was suddenly gone.

As we walked outside in the light of day, the Sheik told me that he explained that I was not personally at fault and his death was not on my hands. He said some other religious jumbo as I drove him back to the village while he was praising Allah and all.

I do remember that everything quickly returned to normal and the animals came around and I guess about a week after that, the traders in their caravan came up to my humble abode to fuel up on good clean water and as usual, I fed them more than enough ham, “Meat Lover’s” pizza. I assured them that it was all, “Moosh Muquallah” in pronunciation from the true Arabic  meaning simply as, “No Problem.”

According to their faith, I was sending them all to hell once a week and twice on Saturdays as I taught them the finer points of Poker and Black Jack. Damn, they caught on quick and the same 500 pounds (Dollars) I alleviated from them in times before, well, they won it all back and then some.

Down on the American side, gambling was legal and we bet on everything to include the game of throwing horse shoes to live scorpion fights, Poker, Darts, Black Jack, and side-betting on Chess Games to pass the time in a makeshift club called, “The Grand Sahara.” The club was off limits to non-Americans and that was a good thing too. Fifty Cents for a can of Budweiser. The women would literally fall out of their clothing at those prices – We would even bet on that too. I mean how many beers will it take before she’s fucking some dweeb in a goddamned broom closet or worse.

Naturally, I was nothing less than a celebrity in a morbid sort of way with my fellow Airmen. Sure, I was and still, an opportunist, and sucked it all up in my 15 minutes of shame.

As for the Egyptian people and my experiences, I loved the people. I had them in the best Reeboks you can buy fresh out of Germany. Eventually, the entire small village was sporting Reeboks.

Good footwear is essential no matter where you’re at.

I’ll stop here on this high note.

After all that I did, minus my ham thing in which not a single motherfucker knew about by the way. I was considered a part of that village and the people thereof. These memories, good, and the very little of the bad that I took from Southern Egypt. I shall treasure and never forget as long as I shall live. As to the strange events, solidly etched into my brain as another episode of the paranormal.


Please take a few minutes and tell me your experiences with the paranormal in the comment section below. Also, let me know what you think about the telling of this story in the written word and how I may improve upon it.

Thank you for your time and consideration.

Douglas S. Taylor

 

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The Boy in the Box — Brazen Edition

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For Annette Vecellio, Joseph Mobley, Kelly Forward, and Laura J. Taylor

And to all who have been bitterly abused but has chosen not to become the monsters in a maddening world shunned by society.

We are more than survivors but as warriors.

Another man walks into the den of such devastating violence that just took place some time before his arrival as he folded up his Deadwood Police ID to be allowed just moments ago by two peeked cops on the front porch of the residence and steps ever so carefully towards the opus of unmentionable vehemence.

There across the other side of what would have been a deco kitchen is a mountain of a man wearing his long coat with huge shoulders that one may describe as being in two time zones belonging to a man sculpted by the very hand of god with the most hardened granite ever known to mankind looking at the smaller man.

“Be of great care when you come in here. There are so much goddamned blood and shit in here.” To the smaller detective, all of what he is seeing looks like a savage animal, perhaps a Grizzly Bear or an African Lion came literally in an unfathomable rage.

The younger detective took his care fighting off the shock and awe of the crime scene unfolding before him while missing the splatters, pools of coagulating blood in the obvious arduous process.

The older and bigger detective began to talk as his voice drowned out other below the kitchen and from those behind him. “You know that little boy that has been locked away in a fucking box in a locked closet down there in that damp basement. Looks and smells like fifty shades of hell. He’s been in his own mess for days on end. However, he got a hold of a steak knife and cut a new doorway through what remains his mother’s underage boyfriend.” The large and powerful man by the name of, Special Detective Stone Phillips stated in a voice that sounds more akin to five miles of a crushed gravel road.

Stone rubbed the bottom of his freshly shaven square chin of his rugged face His dark blue eyes smoldering then flashed about the kitchen as he lit up a cigarette.

“Feels like I need a little something stronger than this, wouldn’t you say?” Stone flicked his stainless zippo and put it back in his pocket as he exhaled watching his smoke cloud up around the single ceiling light above.

“I can see you ain’t quite used to the smell of all this fucking blood, are you?” He looked down at a much smaller man wearing wire titanium bifocals also dressed as sharply as Stone stood looming over him.

“So much fucking blood you can smell the goddamn iron, the metal in it all. When you begin to get used to all of this shit, then it’s time to get the fuck out of this cursed job and maybe find something in retail or something.” Phillips drew in another deep hit off of his cigarette and chuckled at his own comment.

Strong Females

The two standing there with the cellar door open and the Deadwood CSI Team hard at work as two street officers bent over the front porch splashing vomit on the cold concrete driveway from what they saw.

“Can’t really blame them. The two cops on the porch.” Stone reached into his long tan coat and pulled out a small jar of Vic’s and opened the lid from the jar.

“Just a dab under the nose will help you. Go ahead.” The other detective, a detective known as Joseph Mobley who is the very same that headlined most of South Dakota’s newspapers started out as a beat cop until the night that the entire world would turn for him.

Mobley working off a vague at best, caller of the possible address of Geronimo Juarez Rodriguez, the notorious rapist, and on occasion, a Meth Cooker, not to mention,  a real low-life scumbag. Geronimo was someone that was protected in many ways by the feds since he became a snitch for them. Ratting out those involved in the meth trafficking in the region by the Banditos in order to keep his stinking hide from doing a life sentence at Yankton. The local and regional law enforcement in the past were persuaded by the FBI that the scumbag was off limits.

In Officer’s Joseph Mobley’s mind, this new information on an otherwise thwarted case by the protection of the FBI kept the local law guessing on these rapes and murders that led the public citizenry in the discovery first hand who were finding the mutilated and mangled underage female bodies all over town in dumpsters, just off of park trails, and belly up along Elk Creek. 

In the minds of a few to include, at the time, police officer Joe Mobley, this “Hump, and Dump Killer” as the locals dubbed. A murderous pedophile that needed to be brought down like the rabid animal this predator desperately demanded.

With the new information given, Officer Mobley came upon the house in the middle of the night knowing that this is indeed the home of what they bikers called this monster as, “Harley.” More like Harley the fucking Snitch Rat Bastard. Joseph caught some noise from inside as some young girl was begging  Geronimo to stop raping her as she cried.

In this fact alone, gave Joseph more than enough cause to bust down the front door with his weapon and light above the aim of the barrel, Mobley continued in a pitch-dark living room. It would be in Geronimo’s wretched bedroom that Mobley would find the scum raping the naked blonde girl. Probably just another typical girl that may have run away from home and made it into the grip of the biker gang to prostitute in drugs and money. Geronimo Juarez Rodriguez  would end up getting new trim in trade for his trafficking deals, Besides, all the girls murdered were not from around Lawrence County. The scene with her spread eagle and pinned down by this monster was more than Joseph Mobley could stand even if it meant his job.

Fast Betty

Geronimo turned up looking into the blinding light as he pulled out of the young girl. That was enough for Officer Mobley. Geronimo Juarez Rodriguez  flinched in saying that whoever was on the other end of the flashlight blinding him in the act. Rodriguez yelled that he is a “…protected man.”

Joseph only answered back with his standard issue semi-automatic by emptying his firearm, a standard Glock-9 that didn’t do too much good at first Geronimo Juarez Rodriguez was jacked on Meth. Though every shot Mobley made was fatal in its own right to the heart, chest, throat, and finally a double-tap brought this insane animal down. An entire clip and in a flash, Mobley loaded up a fresh magazine and took a filthy blanket off the bed so the girl can cover up herself as he instructed her to go outside and asked her is there were any others like her among them in the house. Mobley would find three additional underage girls ranging from about nine to fourteen in age naked and shivering in the cold left to piss and shit in a goddamned bucket up in the attic. They were understandably terrified.

Everything else became a blur to him, the “Hump, and Dump Killer” was brought to a deserving end. On Mobley’s way back down with the children holding hands in a human chain. Mobley radioed for an ambulance and backup to come at once. The neighbors around the low-life awoke and two women brought coving for the naked and heavily abused girls. Joseph seeing that the girls were momentarily being looked after went back into the house alone and carefully entered the bedroom where Geronimo Juarez Rodriguez’s limp body rested. Joseph dumped two more shots in the back of good old, Geronimo for good measure.

As for Officer Mobley,  he was promoted to detective first class and would be working on cases now and again with Special Detective Stone Phillips. As for Joseph, he didn’t mind at all working alongside Stone with years of street knowledge from his days in Chicago’s notorious South Side.

“Thanks, Stone.”

“Sure, Mobley, not a problem. But…” With Stone’s right hand holding the burning cigarette in between his fingers, “Look on the wall there behind you and notice that strange carving?”

Joseph turned and noticed a bloody patch running down the carnation pink wall drawing closer to it.

“What the fuck is that?!?” Mobley nearly shrieked and realizing it is made of bone turned to face Stone Phillips.

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“The little boy is a fucking Michael Angelo with knives. Who knew? Not with a steak knife, mind you. The paring knife, a butcher’s blade, and the fucking very steak knife itself that he used in freeing his escape is all there in the sink filled with bleach and water.”

“But what in the fuck is that?” Mobley asked drawing for his own cigarette.

“The sculpture is of human bone from what we can tell is from his mother’s missing sternum. Oh, she’s gutted in the bath tube over there in the only bathroom in this house.” Stone pointed in the direction.

Mobley can clearly see that there is a CSI personnel in the bathroom as their shadows danced off the yellow door and the white wall of the room itself.

“I think I’ll skip that part.”

“Quite a masterpiece the boy did on her. I can tell you that Mobley. That up there, so I’m told by Doctor Annette Vecellio, she says it is some kind of tribal design of a devil or some kind of demon. She told me that the young boy says it is his friend? Yeah, I know, right?”

Detective Mobley just shook his head in stricken awe as a police photographer is a shade south of pale as his eyes wide open to this oeuvre of murderous mania played out through the illustrations of smeared blood made by the boy’s small hands.

Mobley is trying desperately to get his mind around the fact that this, all this malevolence was created by the hands of a young child.

“Hey, Jimbo…” Stone snapped.

The police photographer turned to Phillips, “Yeah, Chief?”

“Take a good photo of that up there on the wall for me, would you?”

“Certainly…” The police photography took the shot as Stone and Joseph standing there noticing that Jimbo is heading for the front door for some much needed fresh air.

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“Tell me Stone. How did this all go down?” Mobley asked.

“Well…” There is a spark of light cutting across Stone’s dark eyes and pointing down the cellar, “CSI will fucking confirm what I already know. The little seven-year-old –” Stone is cut off by Mobley.

“Seven? Just seven did all of this shit? Fucking seven?”

“I know, right? Besides the kid is standing about so high…” Stone motioned the height with his left hand. “Yeah, about that high and weight about 65 pounds soaking wet in his mess. Doctor Vecellio made him change his clothing and helped to clean up the entrails and saturated encrusted shit and piss for days he was wearing. God fucking insane. Let me tell you something, my friend. This shit is what makes good people wonder if there is even a fucking god in the first goddamned place…” Stone’s voice lowered as he continued.

“You know, Joe, there are places for the likes of the good doctor in some sort of a pleasant afterlife…” Stone’s voice faded once more.

Detective Mobley nodded in agreement as he took in the entire crime scene of the kitchen area as Stone went on.

“The child, Dougray Scott was obviously tormented for god knows how fucking long, managed to stash a knife, that steak knife in the sink in fact. He used the weapon he concealed on him knowing his fucking bitch mother and her stunted boyfriend would go and lock him up – What they didn’t know, it would be the fucking last time as you can see.”

“How in the fuck did these monsters get away with it all along in this day and age?” Joe glared up at Stone.

“That is a question that I can easily answer. To cover up the screaming and such, they would turn that radio down there loud to cover up the hell going on in that fucking trunk.” Stone paused.

“God knows how long he would be confined like that with no answers to his screams and sufferings.” Stone growing a bit angry as anyone would then continued.

“Then the boy must have picked the lock and with all of his might, snapped the latches, picked the closet door, and threw that radio against the wall in pieces. That is what brought the fucking idiot down the stairs, turned on the light below to find Dougray wielding a knife and gutted on Michael Anthony Glenn.”

“You mean to say, this Dougray Scott did all that I’m seeing with a single fucking steak knife?”

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“Yeah for the most part downstairs, and by the looks of things, a few years of pent up seething rage with about a gallon of pure adrenaline and a demand for a pound of flesh and then some. I cannot fucking blame the little lad one fucking second for…” Stone grew quiet for another moment as Mobley hung on to every word.

“Retribution, retaliation, revenge, all wrapped up in such a tiny malnourished boy. His mother…” Stone took a moment.

“As you can see by the bloody footprints of the young lad came right up the steps and kicked the door ajar nearly shattering it off the hinges as you can see.”

“My god…” Mobley’s mind is playing out the scene that happened over the course of a couple of hours earlier.

“Seems mother on her meth-binge came running right into a buzz saw of sheer animalistic rage. Dougray Scott snapped under all this hideous shit.  Now Dougray had the element of surprise totally on his side as he began with a killing blow and slashing effect upon his mother’s stinking neck. You can see there on the floor of her choking spasms of blood. The boy seeing this monster now lying nearly naked jumped over her body for something a little bit heavier to use on dear old mom. She was alive to see it coming and that there, my friend, is a fact.”

“Horrifying…” Joseph could see ever swing, every action being played out before them by the blood evidence alone.

“I don’t know if there is a word out there somewhere that aptly describes all of this…” Stone lit up another cigarette as he did before.

“He jumped over his moms?” Detective Mobley asked.

Stone in deep thought in a very dark place inside him if only for a moment and then turns around to face Mobley looking up at him. “Yeah, yes, he jumps over his mother and grabs the butcher’s blade because it is heavy. He knows he must have, must need something more brutal to get the job done. Dougray, he begins to dismember her arms and legs hacking away…” Stone shows with his right hand holding the cigarette up to the further wall and ceiling opposing the two detectives.

Stone went on breaking it all down,  “She is bleeding out as you can see and the effects of his unrelenting chopping and hacking. The floor here really tells the fucking story and make note of the arterial spray that looks more like morbid wings of some kind of hellish angel or something.” Stone allows Mobley to take it all in as he points to the morbidity of this inhumanity.

“Treat a boy, any person like this and you create a goddamned monster in your own right. Though this monster might be a seven-year-old boy, but you know the deal Mobley; it’s not how big the monster is, but how big the monster within that counts at the end of the day, and I am afraid based upon this blatant evidence that whatever carved a new doorway through that asshole down there is something much more of a monster that was running to meet him. And that too, my friend, is a fact” Stone grew silent once more.

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“Goddamn…” Mobley nearly whispered.

“Now, Dougray takes the Butcher’s blade and cloven his mother’s skull as you can see some of the gray matter all over the floor and the goddamned ceiling above over there. Hacking away he then began putting body parts in the bathtub. Really, she’s all kinds of fucked up. Quite the jigsaw if you ask me.” Stone barely grinned.

Detective Mobley just stood there as his eyes dancing as the entire gore played out in his mind.

“I know you’re seeing this in your mind, Joe. I just needed to point the way. Shit, you would have figured it out all on your lonesome given the facts as I did earlier from the CSI guys.” Stone takes another heavy drag.

“How did we come to know about all of this about the radio bit?” Mobley quipped.
“So glad you’ve asked, Joe. The next door neighbor by the name of, Kelly Forward said she heard screams and what sounded like a ‘rabid dog’ — her words. She came up to the kitchen window there and peeked in. What she saw would sear her mind like a white hot iron into her memory. It will never leave her what she saw. In this too is a natural fucking fact.”

“I fucking bet,” Joseph added.

“Misses Kelly Forward is down at the hospital being treated for shock. She said in her brief statement that sometimes these people play the radio downstairs now and then a little too loud. She has no knowledge of the boy other than she would see little Dougray Scott that would smile at her on seldom occasion.”

“What is going to happen to the kid?” Mobley asked again.

“Like what happens to most monsters his age. He’ll become a ward of the Whispering Pines Sanitarium, hence, the state up until he becomes of age. He’s got a long and bumpy road ahead of him with the so-called rehabilitation processes no doubt.”

“Damn…” Mobley looked down at his feet.

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“I had enough of this hell myself this evening. I got what I need and tomorrow I’ll get with Doctor Vecellio over some of that preliminary stuff. You can come along if you like. But, I think I hear the police chief coming up and all’s we need is another asshole in this stew. Besides, we did all we are going to do here. Let’s go have that fucking drink, Joe.”

The two walked out before the flashing red and blue lights and the shadows dancing in the reflections off the walls of the houses as the entire neighborhood is cluttering the street after allowing the two undercover cars leaving into the chilling night air.

Tomorrow is another day of a media blitz as the horrors come to light right under the very noses of the folks of Deadwood.


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Giving The Dog A Bone…

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In almost every state in America there are urban legends of phantom cars suddenly appearing and then vanishing. There are actual police video footage of recent years that one can search and easily find. These urban legends of phantom cars go back as early as the making of the first automobile itself.

I first wrote this story just a few days ago as a draft on Facebook. Though, liked by many, I decided to expand both in detail and length as you may read here.

The torrential sheets of rain came down as the asphalt looked more like an oil slick than a rough used surface just when a powerful 1969 SS Chevelle, black on black, and what wasn’t black was chrome suddenly appeared out of darkness. The car, from the glorious days of the American Muscle forever gone, is gleaming in the streetlights as the rain is easily repelled.

All the windows of this intimidating vision to include the front and back which is illegal are so dark it makes it impossible to even see the driver behind the wheel.

The sound of a 396 big block that is nothing less than a perfectly machined balanced engine with an oversized cam gave this car a powerful growl through the twin exhaust out the back under the chrome rear bumper. The crowing jewel of this ominous vehicle is the blower assembly towering over the hood and the powerful engine below.

Anyone that is into cars, especially, the old muscle car days could easily see that nothing was left to chance when this car was built from the ground up with aftermarket and post production modifications going well passed the engine and other obvious changes. The suspension from front to back is highly modified to compensate for the world of high-speed that escaped the minds of Chevrolet. Not missing any details, the SS Cragar chromed rims and matching spinners sporting the very best in street racing tires.

The only sound that is louder of the car’s deep throating rumbling engine is the band known as, AC/DC’s playing the immortal album of 1980, “Back In Black” and how fitting adding to the dark ambiance of the weather. The song, “Giving The Dog A Bone” blaring through a very expensive sound system and a couple of Bass Cannons in the trunk for good measure.

The light turns green and the car rumbles off slowly since it owns an otherwise empty street.

Who would be out in this weather?

Who would be out this late at night?

Is this car, the driver spoiling for some kind of confrontation, or perhaps, a race?

The car begins to pick up some speed just by a mere crack of the throttle as the car goes from 35 miles per hour to 75 in just a couple of seconds hitting the on-ramp leading to north on Interstate 5.

Still, there is no traffic to speak of as the car hits 90 without breaking a sweat in doing so. Medford lies beneath the huge overpass as the car is nearly a blur in the rain creating its own turbulence coiling behind leading to a rooster tail of water it kicks up that would make it impossible to even see the license plate or the shape of the vehicle from someone, anyone behind the car.

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There is no other vehicle on either the northbound or southbound lanes as far at the eye can see on this overpass. Though, the driver of this magnificent beast seems to know something that the simple observer cannot fathom to hazard a guess.

Like a menacing ghost, the car passes the Crater Lake Highway exchange heading northbound. The car hits over 100 miles per hour as it leaves the rainstorm giving way to a much dryer surface as the driver engages the blower causing the beast of the SS Chevelle to raise its front wheels barely off the ground and howling like a demon under the lash.

Now well over 140 miles per hour, the black monster of mechanical rage passes a semi tractor-trailer and in less than 100 yards in front of the semi in the slow lane is an Oregon State Patrol car like that of the truck before seemed to be standing still in comparison. The driver of the SS Chevelle didn’t even bother to slow down at all.

The vehicle blaring the title song “Back In Black” as the red and blues from the Highway Patrol’s Dodge Charger Hellcat now giving chase as the SS Chevelle seemed to slow down just enough so that the State Patrolman could catch up a bit before the dark specter of the car would begin to leave Mopar’s best in the wake.

Now at 160 miles per hour, the state police car can’t keep up requesting assistance as the officer watched the car go beyond his view as a helicopter belonging to the Oregon State Patrol whizzed over the screaming flashing lights of the wailing Dodge Charger and heading up to the SS Chevelle.

The copter gaining slowly on the SS Chevelle begins closing in enough as the pilot and co-pilot realizing that the chopper is practically at its top end speed by the control panel lighting up with warnings.

The chopper’s high-powered headlamp catches the license plate, make and model with the haunting plate of “Satan 666” on the Oregon Plate, customized, of course, in the fleeting glimpse. The car is seemingly toying with the helicopter only for a few moments longer before it leaves the gaping mouths in the cockpit behind at just over 200 miles per hour. The helicopter pulls back, it cannot keep up as, “Have A Drink On Me” is playing.

Traffic on the State Patrol’s radio is becoming heavier as more cars far ahead set up an ambush. Already, this car managed to outrun two failed attempts by the Jackson County Sherriff’s Office in coordination with the Oregon State Police. The car just passed up these locations before the authorities could accomplish their plans.

The across the unrelenting State Trooper’s radio, Dispatch reads back the information obtained by the previous helicopter. The information from dispatch comes breaking through, “The car, a 1969 SS Chevelle, Oregon Plates, ‘Satan 666’ was registered to a James David Taylor of 1151 Justice Road, Central Point, Oregon.”

The officer in the black dodge radioed back, “I’m sticking with it, dispatch. Shit, it must be in Grants Pass by now. It can’t travel at that rate of speed forever and who is the car registered to again?”

The cruiser traveling at 165 miles per hour close of redlining his own engine and weary not to do so. Already the engine temperature is hitting the dangerous level of overheating.

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Dispatch answers back. “The owner has been dead for nearly three decades ago. The car shows no new owner since the car was destroyed on Highway 101 near Coos Bay back in 1981.”

“No how in the hell do you know all of this, dispatch?” The officer nearly yelling back over the top of his winding engine.

“Because, that car, make and model, and license plate belonged to my brother. That’s how I know. And I know something else too, Roseburg police and two state police officers are waiting for a car that will never come to them. You’ll see…” That’s all dispatched said in her nervously frighten voice.

The small prickling hairs on the back of the state patrolmen’s neck stood up as he was closing in on Grants Pass just a few miles south of Roseburg. As the dark, Dodge Charger passed over the town below. The State Trooper, he could see the black SS Chevelle just fade into the whirling foggy mist.

“Thought so…” The Officer said with a grimacing smile.

“Can’t keep going at those speeds in this weather. Now, you’re all fucking mine, asshole!”

The officer slowed his car down extremely quick to avoid hitting the SS Chevelle somewhere in front of him in this blinding fog. In moments later the Trooper’s car made it safely through the other side of the foggy mist. To the Trooper’s amazement, there were only red and blues flashing and coming to him in the opposing direction from the north. He quickly scanned the entire horizon of his windshield and could not see the enigmatic car, the 1969 SS Chevelle.

Then the Trooper stopped his vehicle in the northbound lane and opened up his door to step out with his flashlight as the others were safely coming upon him. It is now almost dawn. With all the lights, hazard lamps and the red and blue lights lit up the entire area right around the Trooper as he even walked to the shoulder of the road thinking that the car in pursuit went off into the dark woods below. There is no sign of anything that would give him a logical explanation as the whereabouts of this mysterious car.

The Trooper glanced back at the fog but it was gone as it appeared simply out of nowhere. His eyes widen at the suddenness of it all. His mind is telling him, ‘Fucking cars just don’t disappear into thin air.’

As the mist and heavy fog vanished like a hand over all them below, the Trooper could see it was not some natural form of fog as he could see the stars above him under a clear night’s sky. There are no other patches of fog anywhere in his sight.

The Trooper scurried behind his car where the fog and mist would have been moments earlier. The pavement completely dry and void of any skid marks leading to heavy breaking or a loss of control. There was nothing but blank dry asphalt.

A combination of adrenaline of a high-speed chase and the ever-growing distinction of chasing a phantom car gave him more than enough cause for his uncontrollable trembling.

‘This isn’t happening. there’s got to be some explanation?’ he thought to himself as he turned to face the slow-moving police cars approaching. The Trooper headed back to his car so he could be safely seen by the oncoming police traffic.

There, somewhere in the slight breeze, the officer standing there could barely hear the chilling bells from, “Hells Bells” from that very same album but could not place the direction and the source only as the sound faded away leaving him totally alone just before others would join in his bewilderment in a few more seconds as the horizon in the east is turning from black to a beautiful dark blue.

A single helicopter is now heard off in the distance surveying the entire area and reporting nothing in sight as the pilot’s voice cracks across the Trooper’s radio.

By now all the other local and state police came up to the Trooper’s car, they all shared in the same puzzling and perplexing look. The inside camera of one of the Oregon State Trooper’s showed only one set of headlights leaving the mist and fog belonging to the northbound Trooper who gave an unrelenting chase. There as they all shared their videos, all showing the very same thing; an otherwise empty northbound dual lane with only one car breaking through the vanishing fog as if a large invisible hand pulled it straight up and out of sight ever so quickly.

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The Trooper understandably mystified as others around him were as well. Some of the officers heard the winding powerful engine coming to them off in the distance, and like the fog and mist, the sound suddenly faded away as if that patch of fog and mist that not only concealed the phantom car, but in some way, took the car with it.

“It’s like we all were waiting for a ghost that never came.” One of the Grants Pass policeman said as all eyes turned to the veteran sergeant as he himself looked southbound.

“I heard of a yarn when I was a child living in Coos Bay about a hellish accident along the coast of an illegal street race. No one survived. Two cars, a 1969 SS Chevelle and a 1969 Shelby GT 500 Mustang…” All remained quiet as the stone granite faced policeman continued.

“I didn’t want to believe it. My dad was acting Sheriff there and was one of the first to be at the fatal scene. Then about a year to the day, the SS Chevelle would show up. People would speak of seeing it creeping… Prowling through town. No one ever mentioned seeing the driver because the sighting was always at night and you can’t see shit through the dark tinted windows. Shit, I don’t think we were ever meant to see through it all anyhow.”

“So you believe in this phantom car legend, then?” Another Trooper asked the local cop standing there in a half-circle around the Trooper’s car.

“Gentlemen, you have heard what you heard. For others, you’ve seen what you’ve seen and captured both on the various car and copter videos. With that, I leave you up to drawing your own conclusions but, I will say there is an afterlife, and a world beyond this one. Nevertheless, this phantom, this specter of a car has been seen as far east as Bend, and as far north as Portland, let alone the entire length of Highway 101 along our coast.” The officer then got into his car leaving everyone else still standing in awe under a cloud of more questions than answers as the sergeant drove quietly back to town.

The next day there wasn’t any mention in the Medford Mail Tribune of the Highway Patrol’s car chase or any mention of the phantom SS Chevelle oddly enough. Everyone involved were sworn to secrecy. Besides, who would possibly believe them?

It would later be a plain fact that all who were involved in this chase this evening would ever see that phantasm of a car again…


 

For my brother, James David Taylor

July 16, 1965 – June 7, 1986, RIP

LAY
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© 2016 by Douglas S. Taylor for DarcWorX. All rights reserved.

A Fools’ Circle…

November2015

I see ISIS has already killed 250,000 of Muslims in Syria, Iran, and Iraq. The CIA did a great job engineering Obama’s dream of, “By Any Means Necessary…” So now those in fear grows into Islamophobia and this fear is spread across the sea of the innocence. Yes, Islamophobia is spreading like a virus of condemnation among the mind-numbing mentality of the Walmart Nation and from the fear mongers they cast upon these coals of white-hot lustful hatred to anyone calling themselves Muslim.

As Adolf Hitler first killed his own, so has ISIS governed by the guise of of another Holy Jihad. Though the true cause is the lust for war and obeying their true god, the CIA who beckons instability in the lands of the former Great Persian Empire and before the Ghosts of Babylon. The rotting bodies of innocent Muslim men, women, and their children shown proof of paying the ultimate price by the bloody hands that guide this wretched army of killers among their own.

ISIS who is blinded by their deadly ambitions are only a fragment of the lethal deeds of the United States Secret Societies in Government shrouded in treacheries upon treacheries that knows of no bounds.

For the Corporate Powers that be have used another successful wedge to drive into the people of America that is still in a deep coma called, “The American Dream.”

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The witches of the CIA conjure spells and casts upon the empty minds yet another Middle Eastern Boogiemen. ISIS enabled, fueled, and armed with murder seared into their dark hearts stretch out to a northern land and strike against the innocents who dwell among the brightest cities in Europe.

Terror once again reaches the people of Paris yet again. Though Obama, a marionette of his masters plays the role of Arson and a Firefighter upon a tightrope. Instability in the Region of the Middle East and Syria by his tightest focus is his ultimate endeavor.

I see into the plans of the masters that govern this world and its marionettes called governments. Yes, Obama is fascist owned and operated. That is the Mindset of Corporate America’s Greed Empire. Get ready for the next False Flag coming soon, very soon to a major city near you.

Will it be the ancient city of the Romans?

Will it be the ancient city of the Anglo-Saxons to surely be leveled by the black hand, the dark instrument of the CIA in ISIS?

Who is to say?

Parasite

Yet the signs are out here in the darker corners of the Internet as the NSA is once again completely blind while distracted in spying of the millions of Terabytes of data being stolen from you and me here in America.

Among the ashes of the dreams dined upon filling your belly. Your heroes for distorted tales of phantoms – Ghosts.

You shroud yourselves in a cloak of paranoia, fear, and as the drums of hatred pounds the enchanting morbid beats under a brooding sky compels you further down a path that will destroy your way of life ever so much more.

There you are caught listening and watching upon bated breath the words of wretched pariahs as they fleece you from your last dollar, your last freedoms, your last drop of blood.

Drunken with power, the taskmasters of this world will stop at nothing, and yet you are entranced into the malevolent spells feeding into the doom and gloom baring the fruits of bitter dread.

So easily without a rational thought amongst, you give up your sons, and daughters to a slaughter of another war without hope but only filled with the deceptive falsehoods you believe as truths.

This is a game I see with plans within plans and a game I shall no longer entertain…

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The Myth

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1. In the beginning was Man, and the superstitious mind of Man created God, and the Man is God.
2. Man was in the creation of one omnipotent God greater than all the rest that came and went before Him.
3. All things were made through Man, and without Man nothing was made that was made.
4. In Mankind was life, and the life was the light of all men.
5. And the light shines of deception and lies for in the darkness gazing from the light we see truth in the lies
6. There was a man sent from God, whose name was John the Deceiver.
7. Then a wretched man came to bare false-witness, to bare and deceive the simple-minded and superstitious called, “The Children of the Light,” that all through this false-witness that all might believe and follow the myth stolen yet from older myths.
8. For Mankind has made so many Gods before to be built upon one myth, one lie, onto another until all the lies were agreed, bound, and to be believed.
9. He was of the Light of Lies sent to deceive and fleece the Meek caught in this Light.
10. This new God created of the likeness of Man would blind the souls of all aimlessly follow.
11. For mankind blinded by this Light which gives generously to every man a web of deceit.
12. Man was in the world, and the world was deceived by His creation called, “God,” and mankind would suffer throughout all time as they have done so in all the former religions before.
13. Through these lies, Man came to His own, and those who did not receive His God created would be killed, murdered, and rape in the name of this new God.
14. But as many as would received this God created by Man, to them that believes, Man gave the right to become “Children of God,” to those who believe in God’s name given by Man:
15. who were born, not of blood, nor of the will of the flesh, nor of the will of mankind, but of Man’s God.
16. And the Lies and Myths became Flesh and dwelt among mankind, and Man beheld His own glory of His New God and the Greatest Story Ever Sold.
17. The masses of mankind flocked together and would attack the innocence in the many disguises and facades of Love to all that would who resisted upon pain of death.
18. Wars unimaginable would spring forth the bitter fruit of Man’s God and the Holy Church carrying forth the insurmountable grotesqueries through all generations to come.
19. No living soul would be free from the cold and heavy embrace of this foreboding yoke created by Man to be suffered upon in this new God’s Commandments of Treacheries.
20. Yet all those who resisted perished then as they will continue to do from one generation to the next. It would be far better to never have come to know of this God of Man.
21. For God was created by the mind of Man fallible, quick to rage, sociopathic, schizophrenic, and deceitfully disguised in a robe of Love and Understanding.
22. For this God that knows of no peace, a jealous, and inciteful God corrupted to the core whose very name razes kingdoms, countries, armies, and the innocence to the ground.
23. Edicts from Rome to Mecca make martyrs of burning alive men, women, and children.
24. Unification of Theism of Man now straps children with explosives for the promise of a heaven that never existed only in the mind of Man.
25. Man growing wise to His own religion has found many ways for children to do the hideous work of God,
26. and His Prophets bestowed upon the graces of the Creator, Man for the furtherance of their faith, as well as their undying iniquities.

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