Thor Garcia's Blog: DEATH SEX WAR GOD

September 25, 2020

SHOENFELT FOREVER: “Live in Prague!” with Tichá Dohoda

By Thor Garcia

Phil Shoenfelt with Tichá Dohoda
“Live in Prague!”
Produced by Daniel Šustr
Humbug (1995)
Buy it


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PRAGUE (CNS)—This was a pivotal record for Shoenfelt—one in which he both summed up his work of the previous five years and set a course for the future. It’s a rugged, robust, unvarnished time capsule that stands as a testament to Shoenfelt’s commitment to his craft—and to his nightmares.

Shoenfelt, having endured a few too many near-death experiences as an addict in New York, had been forced to beat a retreat to England in 1984, a walking skeleton whose actual physical survival was at stake. He was able to sober up somewhat, but before long, the strolls on the wild side returned with a vengeance. It wouldn’t be until August 1988 that Shoenfelt finally kicked heroin. The step launched him on a songwriting tear and led to the recording of two timeless albums: 1990’s Backwoods Crucifixion and God Is The Other Face of the Devil, released in 1993.

These two spellbinding records, notable for their no-frills approach and the depth of Shoenfelt’s storytelling, marked a clean break with the frenetic New Wave of Shoenfelt’s New York/London band, Khmer Rouge (self-declared slogan: “Liberation Through Militant Rhythms”). Khmer Rouge persisted from 1981–1986—some of those years achingly close to a major-label breakthrough, according to witnesses—before drug mania, paranoia and chronic bouts of flaky behavior finally nixed the project for good.

The gulf between Khmer Rouge’s “Situationist” agitprop synth-disco and the punishingly sincere, and frequently severe, Shoenfelt of the subsequent solo records is nearly unbridgeable. Surrounded by the wreckage of a failed band, divorce and addiction, Shoenfelt elected to go elemental—to embrace his destiny as a warrior-poet who preys on the dark forces that drive ordinary men to betrayal and depression, to madness and murder, to apocalyptic showdowns with fate.

Shoenfelt

On those first early records, Shoenfelt established a style uniquely his own, musically and thematically, and that he has generally remained faithful to across the following decades. It’s a style that weaves together aspects of the junkie confessional, the murder ballad, mythical netherworlds and the coffeehouse hootenanny. It’s a style that enables Shoenfelt to persuasively strafe the world with gothic lightning and thunder, cinematic Spaghetti Western atmosphere, and stentorian, man-in-black, voice-of-god revelation. It’s style that gives him the freedom to let loose with a bitter blues, suicidal dirge or chugging alt-rocker. His refusal to bow to trends of any kind, sonically or politically, grants his work an ageless, enduring quality, as if it has come from nowhere but has always existed.

In the 1990s, Shoenfelt’s fortunes were improving indeed. In London, he was lucky enough to acquire a Czech girlfriend and, beginning in 1991, he began making occasional visits to Prague. During some of those trips, he left his albums with deejays at Radio One. Sure enough, he began to get airplay.

Shoenfelt’s tormented-soul themes and stripped-down sound were in stark contrast to the cynical grunge, pappy Britpop and glossy chick rock that suffocated the era. Shoenfelt’s perspective appealed to Czechs who felt unease about the smothering post-communist “democracy and free markets” delirium, who sensed a dodgy, hypocritical side to the happy talk of the EU and NATO bandits that were rapidly transforming the country into an occupied outpost of the Western monocultural regime. Shoenfelt appeared to be a gimmick-free, genuine alternative to the authoritarian, money-is-your-only-master outlook promoted nonstop by the quislings and quacks of the mainstream.

When 1994 rolled around, Shoenfelt had become well enough known on the Czech scene that semi-famous rock outfit Tichá Dohoda (Silent Agreement in Czech) was ready to do a tour. After a couple days of rehearsals and low-key gigs, “Live in Prague!” was recorded at the legendary Bunkr Klub on August 3, 1994.

Tichá Dohoda, which had formed in 1986, was taut and well-oiled, perfectly primed to set Shoenfelt’s songs ablaze. Daniel Šustr (who also produced the album) played electric and acoustic guitars and piano. Pavel Krtouš was on bass and Jarda Kvasnička played drums.

Shoenfelt, already in his early 40s, would move to Prague permanently in 1995 and start a new band, Southern Cross, with Krtouš and Kvasnička as founding members. The Blue Highway album was recorded in 1997, and four other albums and scores of live shows and tours have followed. Krtouš and Kvasnička have been holding down the rhythm section in Southern Cross for around 25 years now.

1) GARDEN OF EDEN—The band hits the gate at full speed with this electrifying version of Backwoods Crucifixion’s opening track, one of Shoenfelt’s greatest songs. Dancing colors all around / I lost my head in a web of sound / Now I don't know what to do / Like Kubla Khan in Xanadu, Shoenfelt growls in the first stanza. The mystery and tension build until the ecstatic breakthrough: And I walked right in / I walked right in / I walked right in / I said I walked right in / Into the Garden of Eden. Daniel Šustr’s blistering lead guitar lends a lethal edge to the proceedings. This is an exceptional track in the Shoenfelt canon, a cut that is both defiant and essentially optimistic, musically and lyrically—weighed down though it may be with vague, unnameable foreboding.

2) HATEFUL HEART—This track, another from Backwoods Crucifixion, spotlights the unflinchingly honest Shoenfelt, a tale of a narrator torn by resentment and guilt as hopelessness and addiction overtake him. The darting, eerie guitar riff seems to mirror the obsessive, circular logic that might drive a man to despair and the doom of drug abuse. The tune also features a lyrical reference to “ringing bells,” which, alongside candles, are motifs invoked by Shoenfelt on multiple songs. Like a stranger asleep in the shadows / I've been runnin’ like Abraham’s son, Shoenfelt sings as the band steadily builds the suspense. I can feel that sword right over my head / I've been runnin' till the Kingdom comes / And I look for the eyes of some angel / To deliver me from myself / But the angel I need / She rides a white horse / Right through the gates of Hell

3) CHARLOTTE’S ROOM—Tichá Dohoda pour jet fuel all over this track, the opener to God is the Other Face of the Devil, blasting it into the realm of pulsing alt-rock. Welcome to Charlotte’s Room, where everyone goes to give up and die. Voices echo in her trance, sings Shoenfelt, And twisted strangers dance / Between the shadows / In her eyes / And every day / She fades away. Death, close and certain, has long been Shoenfelt’s favored muse, in this case represented by Charlotte, who’s nearly all the way there. You can enter Charlotte’s Room, but you probably won’t be coming out. Lay the cards / Upon the floor / She can’t see you anymore / Now she's gone so far away / Her mother weeps / She never sleeps / She just stares into the moon.

4) HOSPITAL—This elegant tune from God is the Other Face of the Devil is deceptively life-affirming. In truth, Shoenfelt is disgusted to the point of splenetic irony over the whole sad panorama of not knowing where he is or what the hell’s going on anymore. The whores and the junkies and the winos / Are all down on Park Avenue South / Oh my dear—it's a brand new year / And I just can't remember / The words or the feelings / Ah my dear—it's a brand new year. Well, and everyone is just slipping away. This is a very satisfying shard of bleak Shoenfelt grimness. Tichá Dohoda rise to the occasion, making the tune’s slow ride into nothingness pleasant and effortless. Some kind of darkness / Feeds my soul / But what it is—I just can't say / All I feel is emptiness / As you slip away.

5) WELL OF SOULS—This tune finds the narrator plunging into a pit of self-loathing and fatalism as he attempts to confront his failures and weakness. Spanish-style guitars and an anxiety-producing tempo accentuate the mournful desperation of this track from God is the Other Face of the Devil. Shoenfelt confesses: Then I crawled back to my dungeon / My jailer's arms were open wide / As I hit the ground my head was reeling / My sins were envy, jealousy and pride. The desolation becomes complete as he begs for relief, admitting all had been for naught: Oh sweet Mother of Mercy / Do not desert this Well of Souls / And for myself, I am no stranger to these terms / Gone is the fire that I stole.

6) MARTHA’S WELL—Shoenfelt and Tichá Dohoda deliver a transcendent version of this standout track from God Is the Other Face of the Devil, which also happens to be one of Shoenfelt’s finest songs. In this case, our narrator is reaching out to Martha to rescue him from a wretched, wasted life. Ah, if only it was so easy. When I look into your eyes my pretty one / I can see the battle's just begun / There’s poison flowin’ through my veins / And bitterness cloudin’ my brain / Lord, won’t you take these dreams away. Šustr’s rising and falling piano suggests the narrator is sincere but hopeless, on a rollercoaster of destruction. Shoenfelt is forced to conclude, from deep within this slough of despond: “Have mercy on me.”

7) THE KILLER INSIDE—This tune from God Is the Other Face of the Devil was inspired by 1952’s The Killer Inside Me, by U.S. pulp novelist Jim Thompson. “I have no affinity for this character,” Shoenfelt informs the crowd, not entirely convincingly. “I was just very interested in the psychology of ‘the killer inside.’” It’s a sprawling, chilling and fantastic song that showcases Shoenfelt’s ability to tell a story in a musically dynamic, rocking fashion. He looked down at the cage of her body / All covered in skin / He said, “I know a way / That I could set you free / Lie down and relax, close your eyes / An' let me come in” / Then he cut his way in. Apparently, guys like this psycho sheriff slaughter the ladies because they’re “scum-sucking whores.” And we’ve got those ringing bells again: Then the police came / And they broke down the door / They said, “Hey son, what did you do that thing for?” / He said, "The church bells were ringin’ / They were way out of tune / I was stuck in this bottomless pit / With a scum-suckin’ whore / She was just a scum-suckin' whore.”

8) PALE LIGHT SHINING—Shoenfelt’s claim not to have an “affinity” for killers suddenly rings a little hollow: Here he is with his second song in a row about such folks. This tune, the final track on God Is the Other Face of the Devil, bounces along at a jaunty, country-rock pace. Shoenfelt’s tale is of a murderer who enjoys his killing—and who’s eagerly anticipating his execution, believing that death will be an escape “into light” and “set me free.” And I stood behind the curtain / Between this world and the next / I thought I was beyond all Good and Evil / Well, I was cursed, yeah, but I was blessed / And I chose my victim / I let murder fill my soul / I laughed as I pulled the trigger / And I watched as his blood ran cold.

9) DEVIL’S HOLE—This irresistible rocker, which kicks off Side 2 of Backwoods Crucifixion, marks Shoenfelt’s third consecutive song in this show about a murderer (so much for “no affinity,” eh?). The excellent tune features a lengthy, spine-tingling crescendo at the climax. The narrator explains that his lady has run off with his best friend: I told this story to my woman / Last thing I heard she was on the run / With my best friend who was discovered / Shot through the head with his own gun. It turns out that this is another confession from the grave. One can hear the voiceover as the camera slowly pans to capture the moment: I saw them standin' by the river / A crowd of people ‘round the Hangin’ Tree / And that Laughin’ Boy, he was fairly swingin’ / He looked a lot like me.

10) THE GAMBLER—The second part of the show kicks off with a Shoenfelt acoustic version of this anguished ballad from God Is the Other Face of the Devil. Our narrator reports: I can’t forget all the sin that I done. Forgetting and sinning are two things, but raising the courage to do away with yourself is another thing altogether. I poisoned my life / Ran poison through my veins / And I pray to Jesus, Son of Heaven / To deliver up my soul / I been livin’ too long / In the Devil's ragged hole. Lacking guts, this fellow tries to weasel out by calling himself a “gamblin’ man” who’s brave enough to play a little Russian Roulette down by the river: But I'll take my chances / I put a gun against my head / Yeah, I'll take my chances / Play a little Russian Roulette / With my life / My empty wasted twisted useless stinking life. How many rounds will he play? What does he get if he wins? Well, it don’t matter much. By the end of this dirge, we’re pretty sure he’ll lose this game just he lost all the others: Take me down to the river / Put a gun in my hand / Take me down to the river / I'm a gamblin' man.

11) LETTER FROM BERLIN—This is another Shoenfelt rarity: a tune that’s almost romantic, if not quite a love song. Shoenfelt, again playing solo on the acoustic guitar, delivers a trenchant ode to “being there” for a hopeless someone who’s “working hard on your disasters” but who’s “eyes still shine with an inner light”: And I know you've thought of suicide / When your heart was breaking with despair / Your friends are dead, or dying, or insane / Sometimes it's too much for you to bear. As in all of his other songs, Shoenfelt declines to cast judgment on his characters, instead letting them speak for themselves. And that crooked moon is shining in the sky / You say your life is like a dream that’s passed you by / When the cruel sun is out of sight / I’ll walk you home again tonight. Excellent versions of this sweet tune would go on to appear on 1999’s Dead Letters for Alice and 2008’s Live at the House of Sin (with Pavel Cingl).

12) THE PASSENGER—Shoenfelt and Tichá Dohoda stride confidently into this track from Iggy Pop’s 1977 Lust for Life album, written by Pop and Ricky Gardiner (David Bowie’s guitarist on the Low album). The tune embodies a free-spirited hobo ethos: The silent hollow sky, the city’s ripped backsides, the winding ocean drives—who cares what messes we’ve left behind, all that matters is the here and now, where everything is “made for you and me.”

13) MARIANNE, I’M FALLING—This acoustic version by Shoenfelt lacks the marvelous gothic, spooky horror film vibe of the studio version, which appears on Backwoods Crucifixion. This tune is a love story of sorts, in which two people appear to be suffering a mutual, simultaneous collapse. In the darkness of her room, Shoenfelt explains about Marianne, She reaches for a spoon / She feeds her body dreams enough to spare / Her eyes reflect the morning light / Death was an oversight / Life was a cross she had to bear. But it seems the narrator’s plea for support will go unanswered—Marianne is no longer there, not even for herself: Oh Marianne, I’m falling / Oh Marianne, I’m falling. Yes, things seem very dismal. It seems that no one is there—if they ever were.

14) ROADHOUSE BLUES—Shoenfelt and Tichá Dohoda are up to the challenge of this hoary, incendiary classic, leaving the Bunkr crowd begging for more. When it comes to the punchline, Shoenfelt growls: The future’s uncertain, and the past is always near. Well, hold on. In the Doors’ original, Morrison sings: The future's uncertain, and the end is always near. Shoenfelt’s choice is apropos, however. In his case, at least, to judge from his earliest albums, the painful past was so close it was barely the past at all.


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August 13, 2020

SHOENFELT FOREVER: ‘Cassandra Lied’—New Dark Gem in Prague King’s Crown

By Thor Garcia


Phil Shoenfelt
Cassandra Lied
Produced by Phil Shoenfelt and Chris Hughes
2020, Sireena Records (sireena.de)
On discogs.com


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PRAGUE (CNS)—We must now add Cassandra to the list of Shoenfelt’s tragical and magical, cursed but indomitable women. And what a venerable harem of witches, muses and femme fatales it is: Alice, Marianne, Magdalena, Veronika, Charlotte, Martha, Carolyn, Black Snake Woman and the Raven. What’s the deal with Cassandra?

The ravishing Princess Cassandra, daughter of King Priam and Queen Hecuba, promised Apollo she’d open her legs to him. When she didn’t get around to it, Apollo got angry and cursed her, ensuring that no one would believe her predictions. And folks did not believe her—though everything Cassandra said about Greeks hiding in the wooden horse and the destruction of Troy came true.

There’s no shortage of folks in the modern world raising justifiable alarms about the collapse of human civilization—and, just as in Cassandra’s day, most people can’t get around to really believing it and taking action. That’s just how people are, I guess—another of the legacies of Cassandra’s “lie.”

In Shoenfelt’s case, other options come into play. The “lying” Cassandras could perhaps be regarded as those who predicted that Prague’s reigning expat rock superstar would be dead well before now—that the addictions and dissolute living should’ve made him an early occupant of some potter’s field. At this point, we can say: Shoenfelt’s one of those rock and roll suicides who never got around to dying.

As Shoenfelt moves toward his seventh decade, with 20+ albums under his belt and a 50-year performing career, Cassandra Lied is a defiant laugh in the faces of his critics and doubters. Shoenfelt long ago proved he wasn’t going to lay down and die—and this record will cement his status as a courageous confessor, valorous demon hunter and indie conquistador. The man from northern England, who survived poverty and heroin slavery in New York City before deciding Bohemia was home, stands tall as a Prague icon of a generation.

Fans will not be disappointed: the material on Cassandra Lied is as haunting and stark as Lario Tus’ cover image of a figure in a black dress exiting a godforsaken farmhouse at dawn, leaving who knows what behind. This is a Shoenfelt record, after all, and the lyrical landscape is, necessarily, unforgivingly desolate and bleak. It is necessarily strewn with mangled bodies and splintered psyches, cloudy with nightmares and disobedient succubae, swollen with cries for mercy, fraught with the bitter poignancy of defeated idealism.

In Shoenfelt’s world, it’s a certainty the truce between Good and Evil has been shattered, leaving the two sides no choice but to ambush each other in an unending death match in which the loyalties are constantly shifting. In this world, it’s a given that everybody’s dead, dying or bonkers. The inevitability of crushing loss—the unavoidability of love winding up disfigured and finally extinguished—the vexing knowledge that death is simultaneously futile, a relief and crucial—hang over all.


Photo credit: magazin-legalizace.cz

Happily, the music of Cassandra Lied reflects Shoenfelt’s craving, especially of the last decade, to push the tempo and kick out the jams. Each of these 15 cuts is propulsive, sharp-edged, nervy—and there’s not a meandering, coyote-call ballad or bluesy, portentous dirge among them (not that there’s anything wrong with these—in fact, they’re some of Shoenfelt’s finest works). The tunes here are spaciously atmospheric but have relentless spring in the knee. They dance and weave and cannily jab, continually delivering blows—eventually connecting on enough pulverizing shots to take the unanimous victory in a technical knockout. Whatever Shoenfelt’s been adding to his morning coffee, it’s working.

The record, which times in at a double-album length of 76+ minutes, is a more than worthy successor to 2010’s riveting Paranoia.com and 2015’s scorching The Bell Ringer live set, both recorded with Southern Cross. It was on these earlier records that Shoenfelt dusted off his rock boots and rejuvenated a career that, by the end of the ‘00s, had become increasingly violin-based and goth-folkie, even distractingly self-conscious and formal.

Shoenfelt has always been a wonderful crooner, Morrison-esque growler and deadpan stylist, and he exudes well-earned confidence in these modes across Cassandra Lied. His voice is husky with sorrow and self-reproach, brutally serious about the treachery and betrayal that mark human behavior (including self-betrayal, most of all). In the absence of Southern Cross’ brawn, Shoenfelt seizes the opportunity to explore different textures, to push himself beyond the structures that made his name. The result is a record that is like nothing else in the Shoenfelt canon. Less topical than Paranoia.com, Shoenfelt has called Cassandra Lied a “deeply personal” exploration that was years in the making.

Shoenfelt, who played guitar, bass and keyboards, is substantially aided by guitarists Chris Hughes (who also played drums) and Kristof Hahn, of experimental noise band Swans, who played lap steel guitar on five tracks. The trio generate an intense but layered, post-punk grind that is musically suggestive of Joy Division, early Jesus & Mary Chain, Neil Young and mid-70s era David Bowie. The guitars chime and churn, displaying flourishes of dissonance, country, blues and surf-reverb. Drummer Hughes, a veteran Shoenfelt collaborator, is comprehensively lively and masterful throughout, maintaining affairs at a pulse-accelerating rate. In particular, Cassandra Lied is thick with echoes of Robert Fripp’s sustained background guitar drone/whine that was made famous on Bowie’s “‘Heroes.’” Rather than just a one-off, as it is on Bowie’s album, Shoenfelt employs Fripp’s concept as an essential sonic weapon on multiple tracks.

With Shoenfelt, though, you’ll find none of the lazy nostalgia, obscure references and cloying mawkishness that plagued Bowie’s mid- and late-70s output. Cassandra Lied finds Shoenfelt still locked in devastating torment—profoundly noir, disconsolate yet dangerously acute. Shoenfelt remains a Manichean liege lord of Prague’s specters and spirits, a chief prosecutor of the grief and guilt that cross the lines and sentence us all to doom. He continues to cut himself open and expose himself to withering self-criticism. Shoenfelt remains as possessed by the fall from grace, and obsessed by the false prospect of deliverance, as ever.

1. GHOST SONG—Shoenfelt’s probing bass and overlapping guitars by Shoenfelt, Hughes and Hahn build an hypnotic aura in this driving ode to obsession and possession. Some kind of powerful, ancient she-beast has seized control of the narrator’s head, infesting his dreams, blurring the lines until her wants have become his—and until, it seems, he finally becomes she: ultimate possession/transmigration/nothingness achieved at last. “My flesh is weak and her spirit’s strong,” Shoenfelt declares. “She died a long, long time ago / She doesn’t want to be alone / My name is written on her headstone / She doesn’t want to let me go. . . .”

2. I HATE MYSELF TODAY—The album nearly immediately hits the ultimate depths with this gorgeous broken-hearted slab of guilt-tripping. Chris Hughes’ ebow guitar lends a “‘Heroes’”-like Wall of Sound atmosphere to the proceedings. The narrator informs: “Just for a moment / I thought I knew what I could be / Just for a moment / Then you took it all from me / And now I hate myself / I really hate myself.” Alas, everything was “just an illusion.” The narrator thought they’d arrived in heaven, but now they’re suddenly “back in hell” due to someone’s insane head-fuckery and their own delusions.

3. SHADOWLAND—The story is paradigmatic Shoenfelt: There’s only darkness in someone’s soul, and they live in a tiny attic room, staring out the window into the mirror of the moon. There’s madness and panic in their eyes. All that’s left is, well, nothing: “There’s darkness in the light / Everything is over now / You’ll disappear from sight / I see the emptiness / And the skull beneath the skin / I hear the laughter / From the evil place you’re in / Only fear and emptiness / Is it life or is it death?” The blistering tenor saxophone of Petr Holovský uncoils across the track, adding a potent, scary touch of “off the deep end.”

4. JUST A MAN—Saying “Hey, I’m just a man” or “Come on, I’m only a human being” has always been the most worthless of cop-outs. In Shoenfelt’s hands, the threadbare excuse becomes completely devastating. Shoenfelt goes all the way, insisting to his interrogator that his “demon” has taken control—and please, no questions about my beastliness—hey man, I’m just a man! The concept of “man in God’s image” has clearly collapsed of its own absurdity. Drums thunder tribally beneath acrid guitar lines. Shoenfelt booms, “When you come to question me / With hatred in your eyes / You’re not the one you seemed to be / But this is no surprise / And if I need protection / From the demon that I am / Don’t question my integrity / Just save me if you can / I’m just a man.”

5. RESURRECTION DAY—Hughes’ urgent beat and Hahn’s restive lap steel whine conjure a Sisters of Mercy-style barnburner. Shoenfelt returns to one of his reliable themes: No escape. No, not even Death will help you here. “I’ve been evil, I’ve been bad,” Shoenfelt sings. “I blew every chance I had / There’s gonna be a price to pay / But I don’t regret it / No, I don’t care anyway / Resurrection Day—it all comes back to you.”

6. FLY AWAY—One of the album’s standouts, this has the feel of a valedictory—prematurely, one hopes. “Fly Away” is a rare of glimpse of the sentimental Shoenfelt—and it only works because this track is absolutely majestic and glowing. The video for this track, beautifully filmed in Berlin and showing Shoenfelt at his most magisterial, is recommended viewing. Shoenfelt is telling us the shattered life cannot be glued back together, nothing can be reconciled—all that’s left is to float off into the Grand Illusion: “Now the days are getting shorter / and my life is almost done / Will there be time to finish / All the things that I’ve begun? / I tried to keep a balance / between the Evil and the Good / Between the Devil and the deep blue sea / I did more than I should / So fly away.”

7. COMPLICATED—The relative lightness and incessant pom-pom, pom-pom-pom singalong aspects give this track something of a Traveling Wilburys feel (or is it ABBA? Boney M?). “You’re in a parallel dimension / Ever since you went away / I’m losing all my concentration / One day up and one day down / It’s a complicated situation.” Er—one didn’t know Shoenfelt was much of a Katy Perry fan (or is it Avril Lavigne?)—but who knows? For their part, the Rolling Stones’ “Complicated” appears on the 1967 album Between the Buttons.

8. CATHY SAYS—This is one of the album’s catchiest tunes, one that gets under the skin and stays there. Lyrics-wise, one gets the feeling the narrator had an affair with a vivacious Czech girl in her early 20s. The fellow was excited, thought it could “lead somewhere”—only to have the “wisdom” of Cathy’s happy naïveté blast the whole daft business to pieces. “Cathy says she just can’t compete / With all my lies and self-deceit / Did I think it’d last forever? / That’s such a fantasy / Heaven knows I’m on my knees / Oh Cathy, won’t you, please?” One does wish these girls well. Most of them usually seem to eventually do all right for themselves.

9. PSYCHO—An absolute hoot of a track—call it peak rollicking Shoenfelt. Enlivened by frisky surf guitar, this tune relates the tale of a bloke who shoots his ex-girlfriend’s new boyfriend—and then the girlfriend—because he “couldn’t bear to see her having fun.” The bloke then confesses he also killed his parents—mother, who “never gave me love,” and father, who “said I was no good.” A certain “Mr. Whiskey” gave this narrator guidance on how to handle his problems—and “Now I’m sitting on Death Row / There’s only one place left to go.” Something of a more ebullient cousin to Shoenfelt’s “The Killer Inside” from 1993’s God is the Other Face of the Devil album.

10. IONIAN DREAM—Another of the album’s standout tracks. Taut, menacing bass lines melt into the anxious drone of Chris Hughes on a BBC radiophonic workshop guitar. The lyric finds Shoenfelt washing his hands of corrupt human civilization and all the lamentable illusions that motivate this species. The fabled land of Ionia, of course, suggests the story of Cassandra and the Battle of Troy. The narrator confesses: “Once I was a sinner / I killed the one I loved / The Devil raged inside me / I’d whip him if I could / Some men live for pleasure / Some men die in pain / Some men find salvation / In a wilderness of shame / And when I was a solider / I said I’d die for you / But I was just a coward / Nothing I said was true.” But even such self-lacerating exposure is for naught: “This world is an illusion / Believe it if you must / And if you find a meaning / It will surely slip away / It’s only there to trick you / To lead your mind astray.”

11. KINGDOM COME—Shoenfelt’s gorgeous chiming guitar chaperones this solemn march to oblivion. This is the first of two consecutive tracks where Shoenfelt mentions that crushing phenomenon known as “love” at least semi-positively: “I’m defined by the sins I’ve done / Been crucified for what I’ve become / And I won’t know till the race is run / If it’s forever / And I know where the kingdom lies / Yes, I know but I’m mystified / By the love that I feel inside.”

12. THE BRIGHTER SIDE OF DARKNESS—Perhaps the greatest ever Shoenfelt song title. The relative positivity comes from the fact he’s talking about the New York Dolls, Ramones and Suicide, about Lou Reed, Iggy Pop and David Bowie—all gents, one feels, that Shoenfelt indeed views as representing the “brighter side” of the darkness. As only a handful of these blokes are still amongst the living, the tune can also be regarded as a tribute to Shoenfelt’s departed heroes. Kristof Hahn’s lap steel screams jubilantly across the track, which smashes gloriously through the empyrean like an untethered space cruiser. Shoenfelt intones: “The love I feel inside makes me feel so alive.” Yet as good as it is, he knows this can only be something short-lived—another illusion that dissolves into mist like all the others: “And the darkness at the break of day / Turns the world around, but nothing stays.”

13. WHEN DID THE FEELING DIE?—This track could be seen as something of a prequel to the much crueler “Tired of Loving You” from Paranoia.com. Shoenfelt pesters his partner: “There’s no loving in your eyes / When did the feeling die?” This is the “evil, bad” Shoenfelt narrator—the obsessed, demon-possessed figure who, in this case, seeks to blame a lover for the deadness he feels inside. The bottleneck guitar of Southern Cross’ David Babka burns a nasty groove across the track. The energetic backing vocals of Marcia Schofield (Shoenfelt’s ex-wife and former member of Khmer Rouge and The Fall) and Anna and Vanais Newman indicate the accusations are flying from both sides. “I hear the voices in my head / Telling me I’d be better off dead,” informs the despairing narrator. “Too much darkness in my soul / Love or death will set you free / Will you still remember me? / I miss you too much baby / There’s no loving in my soul.”

14. QUEEN OF EMPTINESS—The album rounds off with this deceptively bouncy ode to liminality and death. The track shares something of a kinship with the Rolling Stones’ “Dead Flowers,” with harmonica by Shoenfelt giving it an extra kick in the pants. Shoenfelt counsels against hoping for anything more than a sweet lady of darkness to escort you to your final resting place: “So don’t wait for revolution / For the center will never hold / The evil tide keeps right on coming / And the kingdom is within your soul / Yeah, she’s the Queen of Emptiness / She remembers everything I said / Yeah, she’s the Queen of Emptiness / She’ll lead me gently into death.”

15. THE MAN WHO SOLD THE WORLD—A gutsy move to record this for the bonus track. I’ve always felt Bowie’s original was interesting sounding but too squishy, lacking spine, while the crudity of Cobain’s much more famous cover overdid it in the yowling overwroughtedness department, sapping the original of much of its strangeness. Shoenfelt borrows some of the backbone from Cobain’s version but piles on understated atmosphere instead of aggression. Sublime keyboards by Shoenfelt and shrewd drumming from Hughes elevate this to a noble and praiseworthy entrant.


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Published on August 13, 2020 09:42 Tags: album-review, cassandra-lied, music, prague, rock-and-roll, shoenfelt

August 7, 2020

SECRET AGENT MORRISSEY: I Was Part of the ‘Princess Di Must Die’ Die-O-Rama!

Review of Autobiography (2013)
and List of the Lost (2015)
by Morrissey


First of a six-part series.


Watch, wait and listen, and soon you’ll be bitten.
—Morrissey, List of the Lost


Interview by Jakob-Marc Fluhntuster

WEST HOLLYWOOD (CNS)— Welcome Steven Patrick Morrissey, perhaps better known as The Moz—a.k.a., The World’s Most Alarming Man—a.k.a., The Last of the Famous International Playboys—a.k.a., the Prefect of Piccadilly Palare—a.k.a., the Boy with The Thorn In His Side—a.k.a., the Hallowed and Heroic Lister of the Lost—a.k.a., Mr. Sun, Mr. Air, Mr. Nothing in Particular—a.k.a., Manchester, England’s Own Morose, Malcontent and Magnificent Maven of Micturition. I don’t believe any further introduction is necessary.

Thank you, Jakob-Marc. Bulbous salutations to you, dear friend—and by the way, Chachi, you look marvelous. Yes, I am Morrissey, the original slave-to-the-beat, miserable, maladroit Mancunian misfit. Morrissey—the primordial thinking human’s pop idol. Morrissey—the operatic and ornery orator par excellence. Morrissey—the ingenious and desperately ingenuous intelligencer of thwarted romance and traumatized longing. Morrissey—the probing wordsmith without peer—brooding 24/7 on human cruelty, capriciousness, cowardice and conformity. Morrissey—bowdlerizing balladeer of guilt, grief and gumption. Morrissey—the pugnacious, rampant rhymester who gores and gashes the absurdities and antagonisms of modern economic man and his demonic, left-hand-path-following oligarchic overlords. Morrissey—he who is continually hounded by hordes of Labour-Tory, Thatcherite-Blairite opportunists and their witless, non-British ethnic minority immigrant gang-stalkers. They have tried to kill, flay, censor and defeat me, Chachi—and they have failed at every turn.

Yes, I am Morrissey, the long-faced, long-fanged, fatalistic reactionary cartoon character—somehow both asexual and homosexual—who continually clogs your newspaper and magazine pages with my vaingloriousness and misanthropy. Morrissey—victim and master, punisher and punished—and, above all, Chachi, the heavyweight champion. Morrissey, the Moz, the Mozster, is a fighter, a scrabbler, a belter, a bruiser—a hard-punching poet of unimpeachable vigor, finesse and grace—a phrase-meister, articulationeer and elucidationist of unparalleled insight, empathy, and elegance. I am the dark knight of nostalgia, knowing and negation. Within the same short stanza, I shall confess my darkest desires and accuse you of heinous crimes against all of humanity—and I shall be correct, spot-on, unremorsefully truthful and ruthless. You shall be implicated, nowhere to turn. My revelation shall set me free.

Local kids ransack empty houses, and small and wide-eyed, I join them, balancing across exposed beams and racing into wet black cellars; underground cavities where murder and sex and self-destruction seep from cracks of local stone and shifting brickwork where aborted babies found deathly peace instead of unforgiving life.
—Morrissey, Autobiography

Listen, Chachi, and do not forget: I was raised in a humdrum town where it did nothing but rain—and evil lurked in every interminably shadowy nook and cranny. Everywhere, little children suffered—they were preyed upon and left to suffer. The wee ones might sleep, but they never dreamt—and if they did dream, as Morrissey did, they dreamt only of revenge. The news spoke constantly of children being abducted by those who would rape and maim and leave them to rot in vacant lots.

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The stubborn children who didn’t disappear, such as Morrissey, were taught to feel ashamed for failing to have been kidnapped and violated. Meanwhile, everyone in my family was constantly dying or being menaced by psychopaths. We were sad but proud Irish, lost in a sea of sad and pinched Mancunians. Our shared language were dirges about the futility of life. The teachers, priests and nuns were uncaring ignoramuses, experts on the finer points of torture and indifference. The air was dank and smelled of wet clothes, rotting eggs and mildewed cheese. I sat alone in my room, divining divine meaning from grainy newspaper photos and aged, stale-smelling mass circulation paperbacks. There was nothing to do but watch the lies and fantasy of the telly, listen to radio and memorize the public library’s music collection. I read crime and romance books, thought lonely thoughts, fantasized about smashing everyone in the teeth, and mesmerized myself with the thought: ‘How soon is now?’ A Taste of Honey, Coronation Street, Sleuth, Round the Horne, The Waste Land, Orphée, Henry Green, Oscar Wilde: Somebody had left them in a cardboard box in a trash-strewn field. They were mine for the taking. I took them.

Birds abstain from song in post-war industrial Manchester, where the 1960s will not swing, and where the locals are the opposite of worldly. More brittle and less courteous than anywhere else on earth, Manchester is the old fire wheezing its last, where we all worry ourselves soulless, forbidden to be romantic.
—Morrissey, Autobiography

Granddad died, followed by Uncle Ernie—dead at 24, the same age as James Dean. I gathered the bits of my courage and wrote a booklet called James Dead Is Not Dean. First time I had the chance, I ran to Jimmy’s hometown of Fairmount, Indiana to film the video for my solo debut single, “Suedehead,” about cool rocker types from the 1960s and 1970s—because it was inspirational? Because why not? And they filmed me looking at a copy of The Little Prince on James Dean’s streets, and I read a James Whitcomb Riley book in James Dean’s barn, and we got the video pretty much filmed before we were chased out after Markie, James Dean’s cousin, waved a copy of James Dean Is Not Dead in my face. Markie wouldn’t be swayed when we said it was actually called James Dead Is Not Dean—but the unironic Manchester printer had decided to “correct it,” because this is what was happening to Morrissey at that time.

But—

Oh, well. Yes, Jakob-Marc—later, someone said I imagined this whole incident, because what on earth is an old man in Indiana doing in 1988 with a copy of a rare Morrissey book that now costs upward of $200 on the internet? That doesn’t make any sense. They said I did it because I was desperate to make my Autobiography more exciting—and that may be true, Chachi. I still claim, by the way, that my Dean book is “a dreadful heap of 70s juvenilia” that will haunt me forever. (Morrissey grins.)

Even in the 1980s, Sir Moz, it was a terrible cliché to be an obsessive James Dean fanboy—but we’ll let you get away with it because you are so canny and resourceful and trenchantly strange, you make for addictive watching. “Suedehead” is an outstanding video. It still looks fantastic—and you are very compelling, playing yourself.

I’m sure you know, Chachi, that I also wrote a juvenile booklet about the New York Dolls, whose audacity, backbone and valor, whose power and glamorous lack of effort whilst remaining authentically and simultaneously doomed and triumphant, persuaded me that you could live a life beyond the dreary filth and toxic death fumes of Manchester. Is it wrong to understand the fear that grows inside a man?

The confusion with the Dolls is that their scum-sucker rough-trade drag contrasted with the truth of their wise-guy personalities. The Dolls were actually the toughest band on earth, and their appearance proved it. Unfolding before us, they raised the game one hundredfold so that even Alice Cooper—supremely devilish on his Billion Dollar Babies coup de maître—was suddenly a broad on Broadway to the Dolls’ own Bellevue Hospital. Pomp-rock had degraded everything and left audiences immobilized and horizontal in trench coats and woolly sweaters. The Dolls were the slum of all failures, had nothing to lose, and could scarcely differentiate between night and day. For the Dolls, it could never be dark enough. Their raw existence vibrated with expectations of disaster, yet their organs are not tormented. Mockery and practical defeat may very well be their reality, and musical success doesn’t even appear to be their aim. On an infinitesimal scale, Dolls songs are about life happening against us—never with or for us—and as agents of their own troubles they relate everything to themselves. Their eyes are indifferent. They have left the order of this world.
—Morrissey, Autobiography

But ultimately, in the end, I landed determinably on both feet—interminably quiffy of hair, Elvis-like, painfully fresh-shaven of face, the possessor of thick, long sideburns that lesser men would happily sacrifice a nipple for. Because I had become the main man from Manchester—get it, Chachi? You’d been waiting all those years for your man—and now, finally, I’d arrived.

All hail Morrissey, ringleader of the tormentors—first and foremost of himself!

Ah, Chachi, thank you! As you know, I roared out of the gates of hell in 1983 as the tender but courageous, wounded-heart, working-class singer of the Smiths. That was me—the handsome, slender, Elvis-like 24-year-old in the quiff and college-boy sweater—and the bravado light baritone of incredible range. Me, he, me, Morrissey—the boy-man with the transcendent falsetto yodeling, the mesmerizing, meandering, mellifluous moaning, the poignant rolled r’s and tra-la-la’s—the stunning growls, yips and murmurs—the deadpan drolleries and coy, breathy lullabies that seem to at once mock and comfort you.

I look back on the album that became The Smiths and I see nothing at all that had anything to do with me. . . . The album ought to have been a dangerous blow from the buckle-end of a belt, but instead it is a peck on the cheek.
—Morrissey, Autobiography

The Smiths, of course, shot into instant legend and notoriety with “Reel Around the Fountain,” the haunting, impeccably gorgeous first song from our eponymously titled first album. It begins with the chilling and unforgettable lines: It’s time the tale were told / of how you took a child / and you made him old. I may have been talking about kiddie diddling, or an episode of fellatio, or the proverbial Warholian 15 minutes of fame, or who knows?—but Morrissey’s command of himself—and of this song—was flawless, holy, incontestable. Morrissey’s confidence and control, alongside my obvious sensitivity and vulnerability, turned out to be an inspiration to millions.

No doubt, Chachi—the Smiths’ first album blew away anybody who was paying attention. We rejected all synthesizers and drum machines and declared we were a guitar band, as authentic as such a beast can be. And yes, Jakob-Marc—this changed the trajectory of rock and roll history. The Smiths, the debut album, arrived like a brace of cool, clean water—a cascade of fresh, clear, exhilarating hydration—as brisk and enervating as a slap in the face. Does the body rule the mind / or does the mind rule the body? / I dunno I sang on the ferocious, fiery rocket called “Still Ill.” I decree today that life is simply taking and not giving / England is mine, it owes me a living / But ask me why, and I’ll spit in your eye.

It’s fascinating that you say this, my lord, yet you have nothing but bad things to say about that first album in Autobiography. In my opinion, the first album ranks just a notch behind The Queen Is Dead in terms of the greatest Smiths albums. But the Louder Than Bombs collection is probably the single best Smiths disc.

Well, that’s entertainment, innit, Chachi? I change my plea to guilty! That first album is immortal and shan’t ever be questioned—and if Morrissey calls it trash, that just increases its value. That should be obvious. Look at all the lies I told in my Autobiography. Why would I ever stop?

I may as well take this opportunity, Your Mozzness, to reiterate that The Smiths were the most thoroughly wonderful and transcendent band of our times. Every song you and the lads produced was a work of beauty and magic—jangly and hip-shaking, atmospheric, brimming with sonic and lyrical gorgeousness. Soothing and discomfiting, reassuring and eerie, profound, tender, aggressive. Of the six dozen total songs The Smiths recorded, I would argue there’s not a dud among them. You released four original studio albums in four years, a live album, a collection of BBC sessions, and a good dozen singles and b-sides. Even some of your seemingly lesser efforts, e.g., “Stretch Out and Wait,” feel like they’ve been imitated innumerable times by innumerable lesser bands. We are still trying to understand the depth of The Smiths’ achievement.

(Yawning.) Ah, young Jakob-Marc. The Smiths were little more than a collection of drunks, dope addicts, journeymen strummers and inscrutable personalities—myself excluded, of course. Each of the three would go on to betray their greatest champion in the crudest of fashions possible—merely to satiate their habits of alcoholic afternoon hazes and grandiose self-images. I refused all entreaties to become part of this template—is there anything duller? It was as if these lads were preposterously proposing the existence of the Pretenders without Chrissie Hynde, of Little Feat without Lowell “Pizza Man” George, or Fairport Convention without Richard Thompson and Sandy Denny, the wonderful lady who was the only vocalist other than Robert Plant to ever appear on a Led Zeppelin album, as she did on “The Battle of Evermore” on Led Zeppelin IV. By comparison, The Smiths lads—utter rubbish and senselessness—a crashing bore across the board.

Yes, a fellow such as yourself, Jakob-Marc, may argue that the lads in The Smiths were sporadically brilliant, all of them. Maher was degrees sharper than the others, obviously—but that’s capricious fate—that’s the luck and tutelage of Billy Duffy, innit? Put these lads in a room together long enough and they were bound to come up with something catchy—after swinging and missing 1,000 times—if they had that kind of stamina, which they did not.

The truth, Chachi, is that Maher, Joyce and Rourke would not have come remotely close to achieving anything substantial without Morrissey’s steely resolve and rapacious hunger for revelation and excellence in pop mastery. If you listen closely, as I know you have, you’ll conclude that the trio of Smiths lads approach their playing in a feminine, follow-the-leader way. Which is all well and good, of course. But they required an inarguably masculine leadership, and a male-led calm under pressure, which I provided, to transform their half-ambitious noodlings and wanderings into something concrete—to give them backbone, to put spring in their heels.

Point taken, my lord.

The point is this, Chachi: The Smiths thrived on dressing up the most distressing of disappointments, wistful aches, romantic routs, hypocritical denials and bitter sorrow death-wishes—the finest of truths, if you will—in the finest of electrifying, jangly, unironic post-punk rock and roll. Morrissey excelled at taking lyrical candor and whimsicality to never-before-reached peaks, resulting in a continual refrain from listeners of, “Is he serious?” Thrived and excelled at it, Chachi! And yes, no, yes—I was, and am, completely serious. If you cannot be concomitantly profound, heartbreaking and hilarious in a pop lyric, you have flopped in this silly game. Why did you even bother showing up?

Crucially, of course—and this turned out to be very critical indeed, Jakob-Marc—we burnished our notoriety with “Suffer Little Children,” the chilling, mournful finale of that first album. This painfully wistful, sorrow-drenched tune controversially name-checks some of the victims and one of the killers who allegedly carried out the famous Moors Murders around my hometown of Manchester in 1963–1965.

(Morrissey singing lyrics from “Suffer Little Children)
Over the moor, take me to the moor
Dig a shallow grave
And I'll lay me down
Lesley-Anne, with your pretty white beads
Oh John, you'll never be a man
And you'll never see your home again
Oh Manchester, so much to answer for
Edward, see those alluring lights?
Tonight will be your very last night
A woman said “I know my son is dead
I'll never rest my hands on his sacred head”
Hindley wakes and Hindley says :
Hindley wakes, Hindley wakes, Hindley wakes, and says
"Oh, wherever he has gone, I have gone”


We decided to release the song as the B-side of the “Heaven Knows I’m Miserable Now” single, with a picture of a dame who resembled one of the killers, Myra Hindley, on the cover. We said any suggestion of a profit-based Moors Murders provocation on our part was simply preposterous—we argued, with merit on our side, that that delightful picture of Viv Nicholson on the cover was the perfect sublime, ironic commentary for “Heaven Knows I’m Miserable Now.” Don’t know Viv Nicholson, eh? Well, look her up sometime, if you’ve got time to waste. But as we shall soon demonstrate, Jakob-Marc, no Morrissey album or single cover ever “comes out of nowhere.” The covers of Morrissey records are sometimes used to send messages, and all are well thought and muy important.

Nothing to do with Myra Hindley

“Suffer Little Children” has generated millions of extra pounds worth of headlines and publicity for the Smiths and the orchestrators of the “Moors tragedy.” But why not? The Moors Murders remain a media phenomenon like few others—it’s the U.K.’s own Manson Murders. The cast of characters of the Moors Murders is, by now, known by the whole of England and a good chunk of the rest of the world—and this manufactured event remains a cash cow for all who promote it via their news shows, books, movies, songs and art pieces. Why shouldn’t the Smiths have pulled a few strips of gristle and rotten meat from this ever-giving carcass? Eh? It’s revolting, surely, but if you want to be world famous, Chachi, you got to do exactly as the overlords demand. And promoting the Moors Murders has remained a key item on Morrissey’s checklist—Manchester for the Mancunians, as we like to say.

All hail Morrissey—the most singular of all the world’s fantastical sing-song singularists. Morrissey, The Moz—the so-called “anti-rock star” who’s rocked harder than all of them.

Yes, thank you—and I’ve done it all for you, Jakob-Marc—from the beginning I’ve been right by your side. Because Morrissey is a star—not a celebrity. Indeed, Chachi, at the start of 2020, tickets went on sale for my headlining summer residency at Caesars Palace in Las Vegas. Allow me to say that again—that’s Morrissey’s Headlining Residency at Caesars Palace in Las Vegas in the Summer of 2020. Yes, I have finally reached the summit of my powers. Unfortunately, this triumph has been postponed by the current pandemic panic—but Morrissey’s across-the-board victory remains ensured. And I must tell you, Jakob-Marc—it does seem they may be trying to kill you all with this obviously false pandemic, which is setting a new gold standard in terms of trauma-based mind-control of the masses. We’ve done our jobs well—the people I work for, the ruling Satanic overlords, are at the peak of their powers, and you, the lowly ordinary person, have never been weaker—and they’ve decided to do away with you once and for all. You’ve been fattened and concussed and confused to such an extent that you are thoroughly helpless. They will roll right over you, sad to say. Where it stops, nobody is saying—although a great many know, I can assure you. And you can say Morrissey told you first. But, ah—pandemic, shmandemic, I say.

Not even cancer can slow Morrissey. They’ve scraped allegedly “cancerous tissues” from my body four times so far—this is something I’ve admitted in the public press. And I’ve prepared myself to die, to leave you all behind, and happily so. Yes, I have—but Morrissey does not surrender—not to Maher, not to Joyce, not to Rourke, not to Bowie, and not to Death. Nor shall I. Contrary to popular perception, Morrissey does not bemoan his fate—and never have I. Simply, if Death will have me, then it will—and I shall not protest. Do you forget, Jakob-Marc, that in 2013 I claimed I officially died for nine minutes after eating something atrocious in Bolivia or Chile or who knows where on my South American tour? And indeed, that mayonnaise on toast was rancid. But Death spat me out—and I returned to vandalize more societal lies—and to leave you breathless.

I love how your Autobiography mostly revolves around you settling scores and making jabs at your enemies—everyone from very famous people to schoolteachers from your childhood. You viciously go after, among others, Rough Trade boss Geoff Travis, your former guitarist and songwriting partner Alain Whyte, David Bowie, Sandie Shaw, Tony Wilson, John Peel, Henry Kelly, Julie Burchill, Piers Morgan, Gill Smith, Neil Aspinall, Sarah Ferguson, Siouxsie Sioux, Miss Dudley, Headmaster Vincent Morgan, Mr. Coleman, Mr. Pink, Mr. Kijowski, Mr. Sweeney, Stephen Street, Bob Dylan, Paul McCartney, even your heroes the New York Dolls. And, of course, your former mates in the Smiths. It is nasty. It is a wonderful pleasure.

Well, and why not, Chachi? What does your wisdom suggest? We must examine the evidence, Jakob-Marc: I have become thoroughly gangsta in all possible ways. Alain Whyte is no less of a greedy, soul-sapping wretch of a human than John Maher, Mike Joyce and Andrew Rourke, forever formerly known as Morrissey’s backing band in the Smiths. It was Johnny Maher, otherwise known as Johnny Marr, who “honestly hated the sort of people we became”—or he became, as he put it in his letter to me that I reprinted in Autobiography. Honestly, Johnny? In any case—destroying your enemies and settling scores—burying the living—this is the finest taste in the world—and Morrissey has redefined it, Chachi. I have proven myself fearless as I have revealed the shame of theirs and yours and mine and all of our cowardly small lives—as I have ripped the cover from the hideous lies that lie behind your personal and political ruin. Is it really so strange? Please stop me if you think you’ve heard this before.

The Smiths, of course, are now usually ranked among the top five British rock bands of all time, neck and neck—and often besting—the likes of the Beatles, Rolling Stones, Radiohead, The Who and so on. Besteveralbums.com, which ranks records and artists by scientifically crunching more than 40,000 lists produced by newspapers and magazines over the decades, currently has the Smiths ranked #11 on the Best Ever Artists chart. We are behind only the Beatles, Radiohead, Pink Floyd, David Bowie, Led Zeppelin, Bob Dylan, Arcade Fire, the Rolling Stones, the Velvet Underground and Nirvana. Yes—Arcade Fire and Nirvana, you are asking—who in hell are they? We are all asking. Who is putting these unknown, undistinguished bands on any lists? I demand a recount, besteveralbums.com! One thing for sure is that you will not find The Cure anywhere near the top of these listings. That is because Robert Smith has lived his life preferring to be a whingebag. He is a Smith, but we want nothing to do with him. Bobby prefers to explore new dimensions of unfettered crap on his albums—Bob has lost the plot! But that’s neither here nor anywhere. Alas, the Smiths were just an early phase for Morrissey. As you well know, Jakob-Marc, for the last three decades-plus I’ve been the world’s reigning shark-tongued, venom-spitting, stuck-in-the-blame-game, golden-cufflinked solo singer-songwriter nonpareil. In 2006, Morrissey was even voted the second-greatest living British icon in a BBC poll—as I promoted on the cover of my Autobiography!

Our four boys have no hidden disappointments, for they equally bear the gift of hip-to-ankle idolized speed, their bodies calmly narcissistic ass-to-the-grass instruments com-mingled to become, as they now knew they were, America’s most sovereignly feared college relay team, with a unity that could send shivers through any braying jackass who might be fool enough to doubt them.
—Morrissey, List Of The Lost

But the more perfect point is: After the Smiths broke up, I became a more perfect singer. My voice gained richness and timbre. Steel and stamina. Depth and thunder. Acidity and alacrity. My total control of this most potent weapon of mass hysteria became even more undeniable. I cut 75% of the fat and found me a series of crack bands that have featured 100% less of the preening drama and self-absorption of the lads in the Smiths. I muscled up, snarled up, sneered up and rocked up. I widened my stance and cleared my throat. Far from panicking, I roused myself into rude, raucous form—and I’ve jacked up the fame and fortune bigger than the Smiths could ever have hoped to.

One of the reasons we’re here now, Chachi, is that my handlers and the media, controlled by Field Commander David Bowie and his team, enabled me to repackage male queerness—and indeed modern masculinity—in my own self-image. One of the crucial ingredients of the Smiths’ success, and my much greater success as a solo artist, was that Morrissey was sold as somehow being queerer than Pasadena’s Queen of the Tournament of Roses Parade. In the 1980s, queerer than queer, plus vegan, was magickal marketing indeed. Morrissey was celebrated far and wide as that most bizarre of all possible creations: an autodidact from the council estates; a studious, virginal lad who’d emerged from a decade spent alone in his bedroom kinkier than a cuckoo clock and quirkier than a can of cucumber—and the most scorching wit and wordsmith this side of Oscar Wilde, with whom, coincidentally, he shares Irish blood. And by the way, Jakob-Marc, did you know that all the lads in the Smiths are utterly Irish? We are indeed all second-generation immigrants born in England. We’re more bloody Irish than U-“Tick-tock, I hear the children cryin’”-2!

Well, at least that used to be the case—for now, without question, I am, and will always be, bigger, far bigger, than a fop and pretender like Oscar Wilde could ever have hoped to have been. For starters, the shy, bug-eyed, hysterical Irishman who called himself Oscar Wilde never played the Hollywood Bowl. He never had mobs of teenage girls and boys literally rip the literal sweaty shirt from his back as he yodeled about how nobody loves him.

But, and this is the muy important point, Chachi—from the outset we decided that I would not play their queer games. I did not wish to be just another queer English pop star in high heels, eyeliner, a glittery vest and a feather boa, of which the world has already been assaulted by far too many. I refused to sign up for any gay agenda or sissy-boy expectation of how I should behave—indeed, I have refused to join any sexual bandwagon whatsoever—something almost unheard of among English pop stars since 1965. Do you remember my famous quote? I didn’t say I was the third sex—I said I was the fourth sex. I declared I was off your charts—something new that was beyond definition. I wasn’t necessarily against the gay folks or the disco queens or the heterosexuals or trannies—but mainly, and most of all, I was against them—and in favor only of myself. That was our gimmick. The headline is thus: Morrissey and his team successfully created a space utterly separate and immune from the flamboyant, besotted, look-at-my-clenching-buttocks style of a Freddie Mercury, Elton John, George Michael, Frankie Goes to Hollywood and the others of those boisterous, crotch-obsessed ilk.

Well put, my lord. And so true.

Because of this unique position I insisted on creating for myself, Chachi, you could say Morrissey invented the style of modern male homosexuality. You could go further and say I invented the aspirational model of modern masculinity—a stylishness and grooming, a sensitivity, a highly skilled, surgical savagery and professionalism, that is impossible for today’s average male hetero or homo adult to attain. You could go even further and say I was more keenly piercing and “other” than R.E.M. and The Cure and am the true innovator of 80s alternative rock. If you go there, as I expect you will, you could take the next step and say I invented Britpop. Whilst you’re at it, you could say I reinvented loneliness and yearning and the thirst for revenge. You could say I reinvented the interior monologue in song. You could say I put the seal on the final divorce of Englishness from England. You could say Englishness shall not recover after what I’ve done to it, so weak it was. You could definitely say the world wouldn’t be the way it is without me.

Today in my native England, Morrissey is regarded as the damaged family heirloom. He is the gifted child turned brain cancer victim turned axe-murderer—the treasure that turned into a terror and must be locked in the attic, never again to see the light of day. And that is fine—perhaps that is how I have always desired it. Because I love it here—L.A. is my home now. L.A. has welcomed me as family. The hardworking people of California refuse to be bothered with concepts like England or the formerly Great Britain or Pakistan or Iran or other dubious, bad-smelling theories. Los Angeles even decreed a “Morrissey Day” on November 10. I am heard on the radio here all day, every day. The Californians have always been the smart ones. They are the people who open their arms to Morrissey.

TO BE CONTINUED


Thor Garcia

Only Fools Die of Heartbreak Stories by Thor Garcia by Thor Garcia

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Published on August 07, 2020 07:00 Tags: autobiography, diana-spencer, list-of-the-lost, morrissey, review, the-smiths, thor-garcia

July 25, 2020

BOOK REVIEW: Richard Makin Is Extraordinary

Mourning Mourning by Richard Makin

My rating: 5 of 5 stars


Richard Makin is an extraordinary artist, the most insubordinate, bad-boy writer working today. He cares not a lick about narrative or character or other such theories that any child can understand. He scorns your traditions and conventions, which are useless nonsense anyway. What have you been going on about again? Oh, that old-hat stuff again. No, your cleverness isn't very. No, no interest in your lugubrious stemwinders. Yes, the centuries were appalling. Hm, no. Hm, I'm bored. Hm, I am turning up my nose. Hm, the less said the better.

“Another white floater attaches itself to the window pane, a big void of square," Makin writes in MOURNING. "Some of those depicted were silicon-based life forms, others carrion. All matter went up in flames. He has something to learn from me, but does not yet know what it is.”

Makin creates books full of this, hundreds of pages, thousands of words. On and on it goes. Aborted declarations, shattered elaborations, truncated descriptions, corrupted cliches. Reflections of the familiar, the strange, the comforting, the types of sentences we've seen millions of times. Sentences plucked from Western monoculture, from the flotsam, from experience, from the act of putting one word after another. Absurdities and ironies and sentimentalism, unblinking and unwinking.

It's not a game and it's not an experiment. It's not a theory and it's not a joke. It's not particularly brave and not particularly clever. It is merely jaw-dropping. Singular. Unrelenting and unforgiving, it exists in a space beyond the tawdry demands of ideology and social critique. It's a hoot that'll put you in a trance state, that'll make you rethink all your so-called notions of literature, words, context, meaning.

Makin's making a good point. And he will outlast you. He will break you. Your mind will play tricks. He will help you see what's not there. No, he won't help at all. His only concession is to creating concise, sometimes elegant sentences. But they are far from easily digestible. Nobody's sure what's going on here, but it's exceptional, even a marvel.

“A duct that conveys urine from the kidneys to the cloaca is yet to be invented," he writes. "I dared not venture out all the weekend. I wanted to say that her place could not remain empty forever. And we could see nothing in the mist. That was the cue for me to exhaust myself, to renegotiate. (Or is all this the pretense of remembrance?)”

The terrain is bleak, terrifying, hilarious. What's he driving at, anyway? What's he got in there? What is meant by the title? Who or what are being mourned? Let the inscrutability amaze you. Dare to control it. Dare to implant meaning. Try to box it. Run wild with a theory. No, don't. Cut yourself adrift and ride the flow. Let the sentences and words wash over you freely, sensuously, technocratically. Watch as your brain is triggered, making connections bereft of context.

Words are holy. Words are wholly lacking. With MOURNING, Makin demonstrates once and for all that he is one of the most blackly humorous and disenchanted voices of modern literature. His severely amputated prose-poetry acknowledges no obligations. It ignores all the so-called rules you claim to care so much about. He is indifferent to your exertions and squabbles. The point has been lost. There never was a point. There never was a goal. Having goals shows how rude and arrogant you are. Everything is over. Nothing began. Don't even try. Makin is a great artist.



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Published on July 25, 2020 04:49

July 11, 2020

HOWL OF THE TROUBADOUR: ‘We’re All a Bunch of Sitting Ducks!’

1. You’re all a bunch of sitting ducks
You’re all a bunch of sitting ducks
You’re all a bunch of sitting ducks
To-daaaaayyyy

2. We’re on the Rollercoaster of Death
We’re on the Rollercoaster of Death
We’re on the Rollercoaster of Death
To-daaaaayyyy

3. Everywhere you look—enemies on all sides
Everywhere you look—enemies on all sides
Everywhere you look—enemies on all sides
And they’re coming after you—to-daaaaayyyy

4. You’re all a bunch of stooges
You’re all a bunch of stooges
You’re all a bunch of stooges
Marching to whatever foolish, evil thing they say to-daaaaayyyy

5. Propaganda
Propaganda
Propaganda
All we eat and say is ruling-power propaganda each and every
daaaaayyyy


6. You’ve been tricked
You’ve been tricked
You’ve been tricked
Everything they taught—and you believed—was sheer liiiiiiiiiiieees

7. ‘Cuz you’ve been drugged down / numbed down / and dumbed down
Drugged down / numbed down / dumbed down
Drugged down / numbed down / dumbed down
Most of us don’t know our hat from a hole in the ground—to-daaaaayyyy!

8. This thing won’t end quick—it’ll never end
This thing won’t end quick—it’ll never end
This thing won’t end quick—it’ll never end
Welcome to your neo-feudal dystopian nightmare future—to-daaaaayyyy!

9. Keep your head down—Johnny got your gun?
Keep your head down—Johnny got your gun?
Keep your head down—Johnny got your gun?
The world you thought you loved and knew is so looooooong gone it's just a joke—to-daaaaayyyy!

10. Stock a year of food
Stock a year of food
Stock a year of food
And hide it in 10 places underground

11. You’re presumed sick—until they say you’re healthy
You’re presumed sick—until they say you’re healthy
You’re presumed sick—until they say you’re healthy
And now you been muzzled and diapered, and muzzled, and diapered,
and muzzled, and diapered, and muzzled, and diapered. . . .


12. ‘Cuz you’re just a data point—in the simulation
A data point—in the simulation
A data point—in the simulation
You’ve been bought and sold and totally controlled to-daaaaayyyy!

13. You repeated, “I believe the believe the scientists—let’s follow the science!”
You repeated, “I believe the believe the scientists—let’s follow the science!”
You repeated, “I believe the believe the scientists—let’s follow the science!”
Because scientists work for free—and they always tell the truth—especially on TeeeeeVeeeee—hoooo-raaaaayyyy!!

14. 'Cuz without health and safety—there’s no security
Without health and safety—no security
Without health and safety—no security
And without security there’s no democracy—democracy—democracy
—democracyyyyy to-daaaaayyyy!!


15. They said it was for your safety—thank you, man!
They said it was for your safety—thank you, man!
They said it was for your safety—thank you, man!
Just like taking off your shoes before you board the airplaaaaaaaaaane

16. And now we’ll do exactly as we’re told (we’ve got to, man!)
We’ll do exactly as we’re told (we’ve got to, man!)
We’ll do exactly as we’re told (we’ve got do, man!)
In this case—oh, just in this case—just in this case—we’ll do exactly as we’re tooooooooold—because we’ve got to—oh, we’ve really got to—for our health and safety—and yours—and for the whole wide world—because no one on this earth should ever be allowed to die of the common farking cold, oh no—we’ve just heard it on TeeeeeVeeeee from the serious scary men and moms who are so very concerned for us—for you—for me—for the whole wide amazing world!

17. Oh, you’ve got one foot in the grave—and the other on a banana peel
You’ve got one foot in the grave—and the other on a banana peel
You’ve got one foot in the grave—and the other on a banana peel
They’ve turned you into a sniveling, pathetic, craven whore to-daaaaayyyy

18. They're gonna deeeee-populate
Deeeee-populate
Deeeee-populate
Because the Satanists think there's too many of you useless eaters around to-daaaaayyyy

19. Now your goose is cooked—you’re totally fooked
Your goose is cooked—you’re totally fooked
Your goose is cooked—you’re totally fooked
To-daaaaayyyy

20. Oh, we’re all a bunch of sitting ducks
We’re all a bunch of sitting ducks
We’re all a bunch of sitting ducks
To-daaaaayyyy!


Thor Garcia

TUND Short Stories by Thor Garcia by Thor Garcia

Only Fools Die of Heartbreak Stories by Thor Garcia by Thor Garcia

The Apocalypse of St. Cleo by Thor Garcia

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June 18, 2020

WHORES OF DYSTOPIA: Priest Says ‘Children of Darkness’ Creating Chaos to Enslave Humanity!

PRISTINA (CNS)—A high-ranking rebel Catholic clergyman has warned that humanity is under grave threat from Luciferian evildoers who are fomenting violence and destabilization “to profit from the dissolution of the social order so as to build a world without freedom”!

In a letter to kakistocratic puppet U.S. President Donald Trump, renegade Roman Catholic Archbishop Carlo Maria Viganò blasted the civilization-wrecking coronavirus hoax and the recent race-based provocations and violence in the United States as part of a “colossal operation of social engineering” by Satanists who control the key levers of global power!

Referring to the recent eruptions of rioting, looting, vandalism and other mayhem, Viganò cited the menace of dark forces guided by the Masonic teaching of Solve et Coagula , Latin for “dissolve and coagulate.”

Solve et Coagula famously appears inscribed on the arms of Baphomet, the winged, horned goat deity with human female breasts created in the mid-19th century by occultist and magician Éliphas Lévi Zahed.

The Knights Templar—the pillaging Crusaders, kingmakers and forerunners of the Freemasons—were accused of worshiping Baphomet when their enterprise was supposedly dismantled in the early 14th century by King Philip IV.

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Solve et Coagula also mysteriously appears as a tattoo on the wrist of Crowleyite media personality J.K. Rowling, the intel agency gatekeeper credited as the author of the Harry Potter series of fascistic black magick sorcery “children’s books” that were ruthlessly hammered into global consciousness!

description

Solve et Coagula is sometimes paired with another Luciferian Masonic teaching, Ordo ab Chao , Latin for “order out of chaos.” This teaching, traditionally linked to the 33rd, or highest level of Freemasonry, instructs the deliberate creation of chaos to trigger the rise of a “new order”—otherwise known as the governing principle of the ruling Satanic pedophile elites who are driving the world to ruin!

Archbishop Viganò falters in his otherwise astute analysis when he absurdly suggests that kakistocratic clown actor U.S. President Trump, whose father was a top American Nazi, is somehow on the side of true Christians and people of good faith—and that attempts are being made by dark forces to force Trump from office or block his reelection!

It was not immediately clear whether the 79-year-old Viganò made these goofball claims because he is increasingly addled and/or befuddled due to old age!

It was also not immediately clear whether the archbishop’s letter was just another semi-clever intel attempt to “blackwash” the reality of Luciferian Masonic influence by farcically linking it to opposition to kakistocratic comedian President Trump, the sinister slapstick henchman of the same “deep state” of hidden controllers that Viganò ostensibly seeks to denounce!

Viganò, we shall not forget, was appointed to the esteemed post of Titular Archbishop of Ulpiana (in Kosovo) in 1992 and has spent his entire career in the hideously corrupt and criminal cesspool of the Roman Catholic Church!

In his letter to kakistocratic gagman President Trump, Viganò cannily speaks of a “Biblical” conflict between “children of light,” or most of the world’s people, and “children of darkness” who “hold strategic positions in government, in politics, in the economy and in the media.”

“The good are held hostage by the wicked and by those who help them either out of self-interest or fearfulness,” wrote Viganò, who served as Apostolic Nuncio to the United States under Pope Benedict, otherwise known as “Uncle Joe Ratzinger,” Rome’s most recent “dark lord Nazi pope.”

Viganò—a woolly and wily veteran of uncountable Holy See intrigues, scandals, lie campaigns and cover-ups—has clashed repeatedly with Pope Francis, Benedict’s replacement, over sexual misconduct by Catholic bigwigs.

In 2018, he even accused Pope Francis of abetting a “homosexual current” in the Vatican and demanded that the pontiff resign!

In his letter to kakistocratic, mookish mountebank President Trump, Viganò accused the “children of darkness” of seeking to “demolish the family and the nation, exploit workers to make themselves unduly wealthy, foment internal divisions and wars, and accumulate power and money.”

“For them,” thundered Viganò, “the fallacious illusion of temporal well-being will one day—if they do not repent—yield to the terrible fate that awaits them, far from God, in eternal damnation.”

Perhaps referring to his epic confrontation with Pope Francis, Viganò speaks of “mercenary infidels” within the “deep church” who seek to destroy the church and surrender the innocent “sheep” of Christ to evil forces.

“There are faithful Shepherds who care for the flock of Christ,” he writes, “but there are also mercenary infidels who seek to scatter the flock and hand the sheep over to be devoured by ravenous wolves.”

“It is not surprising,” Viganò adds, “that these mercenaries are allies of the children of darkness and hate the children of light: just as there is a deep state, there is also a deep church that betrays its duties and forswears its proper commitments before God.”

Viganò mentions, but does not name, certain bishops who act in the interests of Luciferian Masonic goals:

“They are subservient to the deep state, to globalism, to aligned thought, to the New World Order which they invoke ever more frequently in the name of a universal brotherhood which has nothing Christian about it, but which evokes the Masonic ideals of those who want to dominate the world by driving God out of the courts, out of schools, out of families, and perhaps even out of churches.”

Regarding kakistocratic conman jokester President Trump, the archbishop preposterously proposes that Trump acts out of Christian principle rather than the raw political calculations of his Satanic pedophile controllers and screenwriters as part of a psy-op designed to widen and deepen America’s political divide.

Recall that kakistocratic rent boy prankster President Trump—in a craven stunt showing there is no limit to how low he will stoop—on June 1 marched from the White House to nearby St. John's Church, where he waved a Holy Bible in front of astonished onlookers—in an apparent attempt to seize the moral high ground from rioters and looters who were wreaking havoc in cities across the United States!

“For the first time,” Viganò inaccurately writes, “the United States has in you (Trump) a President who courageously defends the right to life, who is not ashamed to denounce the persecution of Christians throughout the world, who speaks of Jesus Christ and the right of citizens to freedom of worship.”

Viganò includes the following monstrous whopper near the end of his missive, yanking the tails of his readers by suggesting that Americans have somehow wriggled free of their media-manufactured mental prisons—when, of course, nothing could be further from the truth:

“The American people are mature and have now understood how much the mainstream media does not want to spread the truth but seeks to silence and distort it, spreading the lie that is useful for the purposes of their masters.”

The archbishop bows out with a final crackerjack huzza: “United against the Invisible Enemy of all humanity, I bless you and the First Lady, the beloved American nation, and all men and women of goodwill.”

Nicely done, Carlo Maria Viganò, Titular Archbishop of Ulpiana!


Thor Garcia

Only Fools Die of Heartbreak Stories by Thor Garcia by Thor Garcia

TUND Short Stories by Thor Garcia by Thor Garcia

The Apocalypse of St. Cleo by Thor Garcia

The News Clown A Novel by Thor Garcia by Thor Garcia
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Published on June 18, 2020 01:47 Tags: chaos, children-of-darkness, dystopia, enslave, humanity, priest, thor-garcia

June 4, 2020

WHORES OF DYSTOPIA: American Dupes Played for Fools by Spook Masters!

“It is not a matter of what is true that counts, but a matter of what is perceived to be true.”—former U.S. Secretary of State Henry Kissinger


PRAGUE (CNS)—“What is happen to America?” asked Vladan. “I don’t understand, why do they—?”

“Right,” said Paul, “nobody has any idea what’s going on, especially the Americans. Because nobody’s studied—they haven’t paid close attention—all they do is listen to the phones and the hate-filled propaganda on the T.V. news lies and other unfunny comedy shows—the only things you can watch on the wasteland that is U.S. culture and television.”

“But—” Vladan began.

“For sure!” said Paul. “Because the Americans are now in full-tilt brain-damaged dumbshit mode, Vlado. Simultaneously outraged, thrilled and frightened by T.V. footage of broken glass and cop cars on fire, and scum thieves running out of stores with glitzy plastic junk you couldn’t sell for $2. Everyone should feel ashamed but most don’t."

“But—”

"Ah hell, Vlado! This shit show has revealed America as nothing more than a nation of dupes, dipshits and dullards who’ve been split into easily controllable, hate-braying, know-nothing, useful-idiot factions easily manipulated and controlled by their spook agency/police state masters. They’ve been trained to love racism and to beg for tyranny. And now they are getting all the racism and tyranny they desire, and they will surely wind up in a hellhole existence far worse than they’ve got now. And they are determined to drag the rest of the world down with them."

“But—”

"Hold on tight, kid—it’s gonna be a lights-out nail-biter of a barnburner, a real pressure cooker that’s gonna go down to the wire in a last-chance Hail Mary in the old town tonight!”

“But—”

“What we can say without doubt,” said Paul, “is that it’s stunning how fast America’s Nazi rulers and the Satanic pedophile overlords have moved to finally establish the unchained, unleashed, unmasked, gloves-off, we’ll-disappear-you-in-a-second police state. It’s all going according to plan—they must be very pleased.”

“But—”

“I know, I know! Trump—the buffoonish comedian president whose father was a top Amerikadeutscher Bund Nazi, K.K.K. admirer and critic of the Negro race—has taken to walking around the streets of Washington with a Bible. Yes, it’s totally faaaaabulous, Vlado—Trump looks exactly like a Jimmy Swaggart/Bill Clinton drunken preacher type who’s just walked out of a whorehouse on Sunday morning, a Bible in his hand and a whisky flask in his back pocket. Trump, a glorious friend and hatchet man of the oligarchs and Satanic pedophile overlords, is busy insulting cops, governors and mayors as utter pussies for not soaking the streets with the blood of his Negro and hippie dyke pussyhat enemies.”

“But—”

“Yes indeed, Donald’s a wonderful actor, performing his role extremely well. He’s kept everybody guessing, which has been rather good scripting, I must say. I foresee Trump’s part in this kabuki continuing well into the future—although it can’t be excluded that he’ll draw the short straw during a coffee break and they’ll decide to write an unpleasant ending for him—assassination or arrest, most likely—and hand the role to an up-and-coming telegenic general, perhaps black or a woman, who provides Clintonian pap and Obamaist bromides such as, ‘It’s time, at long last, for a fresh start for all good hardworking Americans who play by our rules’—which will mean only more and worse of the same, of course.”

“But—”

“And wasn’t that quite a black magick trick with the ‘Boxing Hall of Fame’ suffocation event in Minneapolis? The snuff film seen ‘round the world, in which Derek ‘The Chauvinist’ Chauvin, the unshaven, crooked-badge crooked white cop, took a Freemasonic left knee and pinned the neck of a black fella to the ground? Cops had been called to the scene because the black fella had supposedly passed a counterfeit bill at a little grocery, eh? Interesting, innit? And this fella, we shall never forget, had a first name of George (Foreman), a middle moniker of ‘Pretty Boy,’ and a last name of Floyd (Mayweather). And the whole incriminating, ‘snuff’ scene was filmed by a young girl called Darnella Frazier. Foreman, Mayweather and Frazier, eh? Egged on by Derek ‘The White’ Chauvinist, eh? Talk about a heavyweight slugfest on prime time! Talk about having a chuckle at the expense of boxing fans!”

“But—”

“Then, in the spectacular denouement of this trauma-based psy-op on 38th St.—3 and 8 being curious because they coincidentally are the favorite numbers of the Satanic pedophile overlords, for many reasons including that they add up to 11, the number of magick—the guys who show up with the ambulance don’t bother to check the vitals or do any first aid on Gorgeous George. They just load his body in the vehicle and speed away. Who called 'em, anyway, the cops, in the middle of the suffocation operation? Guess that’s how they run it in Minneapolis, eh? Anyway, now they’re saying Georgie was high as the space shuttle on meth and fentanyl and had a heart problem, that he was a gutter-level convict who served time in the joint after pointing a gun at a pregnant woman, and that he also did a bit of porn acting on the side? And the Chauvinist has got his own IMDB page, in which he’s credited with a bunch of TV parts for ‘playing himself.’ And the two fellas, Floyd and Chauvin, also coincidentally worked together as ‘security guards’ at a Minneapolis night club or strip club that rioters burned down, coincidentally. Well, well, well. Chauvin sure did love to mug for the camera as he took a Masonic left knee to the back of Pretty Boy Floyd’s neck—but neither he nor the other cops were so evil as to stop 17-year-old girl Frazier from standing there and filming their crimes from point-blank range for minutes and minutes and minutes? What’s going on there? Is that how the cops run it in Minneapolis, hmmm?”

“But—”

"Hold on, wait a sec—8:46? Is that what the cops and the official news stenographers say is the official length of the Chauvinistic Masonic-knee-on-neck ritual—8:46? What? Hmmm, that sounds familiar. Oh, that's right—the 'plane' that hit WTC 1 on 9/11 exploded into the tower at 8:46 a.m. What an odd coincidence. Aw, hell with it! Move along, nothing to see here."

“But—”

“That’s right, Vlado—innocent incident coincidences—nothing but rumors and scurrilous conjecture spread by racists and racist Trump fanatics. Because one must always accept the word of the cops—especially when it comes to the sacred matter of police brutality! Almost makes one think fondly of the eerie but innocent name coincidences surrounding the faked, er ‘failed,’ above-ground Underground train bombing in England in September 2017—you remember, the one at Parsons Green that featured a Crowley and a Hubbard as supporting actors? Huh? Don’t know who Jack Parsons, Aleister Crowley and L. Ron Hubbard are, eh? Well, look ‘em up and get half a clue of what we’re dealing with. As above—so below, eh? All the world’s a stage, eh? These overlords oh so love to fake their trauma-based psy-op events—and they love to give the game away with their clues, through which they reveal their magickal powers of mind-control and perception management to those who are paying attention, rubbing their nose in the fact that nothing can be done to stop them.”

“But—”

“Yes, Vlado, yes! They are turning America into a literal hell—a new ‘Death of Yugoslavia’ total-dumbshit situation. They are egging on the dupes to rob and steal and rape and kill each other, leaving the overlords and their spook enforcers to carry on with their business! By design, the rest of the world will get sucked into the nightmare via war and Depression and the house of cards generally falling to pieces. Chaos will reign until the global population is hacked in half—at least— and everybody—everyone who survives, that is—has become a slave suffocating under the boot of the worldwide police state.”

“But—”

“The Thousand-Year Global Reich is being rolled out before our eyes!” shouted Paul, laughing as he popped the top of another beer bottle. “As I’ve been saying for the past few months, since the ludicrous coronahoax farce hit and they purposely demolished the global economy—and as a friendly Irish setter confirmed to me last week—they’re coming to kill us all, worldwide. They’re going to depopulate our weak, lousy asses, Vlado, in the worldwide Death Match of the Century! They believe they’ve got full-spectrum domination of the mind-control machinery, domination of all communications and surveillance levers—and they do, oh yes, they do. Mainstream media and unsocial media and alternative media—in case you haven’t noticed, these things are controlled by actual spook agents who do the bidding of the Satanic pedophile masters. Nothing happens in these media and platforms that doesn’t benefit the plan of the overlords. Or haven’t you noticed yet?”

“But—”

“We’re sunk, baby! Our fellow human beings are too doped, duped and fooled to do anything but drool at the never-ending spool of shoddily produced spectacles. They love them some racial-based narratives and plain ol’ racism and some hating on the ‘Other.’”

“But—”

“But nothing!” said Paul. “The thing you should understand, Vlado, is that the ruling powers have been ‘controlling the opposition’ for generations—for hundreds and perhaps thousands of years. It’s a ruling Top Dog principle, perhaps the key principle: What better way to control the opposition than to lead it yourself? Groups like Antifa, Black Lives Matter, Proud Boys, white supremacist orgs—there’s even a new one called the ‘Boogaloo Bois,’ if you can believe it—and I can’t, Vlado, I just can’t—anyway, they’re all completely infiltrated, organized, owned, funded and operated by spooks. The spook agencies and their allies control and manipulate people with grievances to make sure they never get organized to the extent that they gain enough influence and support to threaten the interests of America’s ruling Nazis and the Satanic pedophile overlords.”

“But—”

“Exactly right, Vlado: There’s not a thing the dupes in these groups do that the cops and spooks don’t know about and/or orchestrate. Do really think so-called ‘radical’ groups can operate under the radar in America? Do you really think a bunch of goons can run around rioting and destroying things in the overpriced downtown shopping districts of America—and the cops and FBI and CIA don’t know who’s doing it and are unable to stop it? Do you really think the cops can’t buy a clue about who’s dumping the carefully stacked loads of bricks on the sidewalks for the rioters to use as weapons? Do you think the cops and FBI have no idea about the rioters’ walkie-talkies and their organization, strategies and tactics? Do you think they’re totally in the dark about the ‘bike scouts’ and pre-planted medical supplies, the weapons and bail bondsmen? No idea, eh?”

“But—”

“It’s laughable, it’s ludicrous! What we see on the videos is police standing aside as mobs torch their vehicles and rampage through retail outlets. The Minneapolis police abandoned their own station to a sloppy mob—with cops like that, we might as well not have any. Who ya gonna call now? Because discord, destruction and despair is, in fact, the plan.

“But—”

“Your run-of-the mill duped protester, rioter or counter-protester, has no clue they’re doing exactly what the government and overlords want. The military and spook agencies have studied mass population mind-control for generations—and they are thinking many steps ahead of those hypnotized by television spectacles. They’d love nothing more than to have general fighting and destruction break out so they can impose full-bore martial law. They want us begging for protection and begging for food and begging for vaccines and kissing their butts in gratitude to be able to breathe air. Whipping up some new black-white strife—they know how to do it in their sleep! It’s a fantastic way to stop people thinking about the massive crimes of the coronahoax lockdown scamdemic and the crashed economy and the corporate thieving.”

“But—”

“Are you kidding, Vlado? In America—home of The Man? America—who never met a Native American it didn’t try to kill? America—where the army gave LSD to the hippies to confuse and disorient their movement? America—home of the ballsy, catch-us-if-you-can tricksters behind the faked moon landings? America—land of the thief and the home of the slave? America—dedicated for its entire existence to keeping the Black Man down? America—home of radical feminist Gloria Steinem, CIA agent and stepmother of Christian Bale? America—where the police and security agencies have uncountable black-budget billions to spend on manpower, surveillance, weapons and whatever unwholesome trauma-based psy-ops they can dream up?

“But—”

“Do you really think rich white boys like Antifa would get so much media attention without being a wholly owned subsidiary of the cops and FBI? If they’re so tough, how come Antifa never attack Wall Street or the security agencies, but only unarmed people on college campuses or in public parks? Where's their "defund the military, FBI and CIA" campaigns? Turns out Antifa are like them scary ol’ Islamic terrorists of yesteryear, eh? The scary terrorist foes who can only attack obscure San Bernardino offices and gay Florida nightclubs and who run over people with trucks in Nice, France, eh? And where no video of these incidents exists, eh?"

“But—”

“Oh, the list goes on and on, Vlado! The Occupy movement, environmental radicals, anti-globalists, Black Panthers, Students for a Democratic Society, Nation of Islam, Symbionese Liberation Army, Charles Manson gang, antiwar movement, hippies, feminists, beatniks, modern art, modern lit, gangsta rap and all major media, obviously—all infiltrated and funded by intel—all the time! Have a look sometime at Operation Mockingbird, CHAOS, COINTELPRO, the Congress for Cultural Freedom, Gladio, the Independent Research Service and the National Student Association. It’s amazing most people still don’t get this—which shows the overwhelming power of propaganda and cynical distraction programming—and most importantly, narrative control. Control the big narrative—or what is perceived by the masses to be true—and you control the masses. This is the first thing every spook is taught.”

“But—”

“They used the coronahoax to wreck the economy and do a rapacious new raid on the treasuries. Now they’re burning out downtown districts and promoting a race war. America’s going back years each and every day! They’re weakening the people, dividing and conquering and setting them up for poverty and servility and following the arbitrary dictates of a cruel and impenetrable tyranny.”

“But—”

“In the U.S.A., pushing the race narrative is always a win-win-win—for the Nazi rulers and Satanic pedophile overlords, that is. They are sooooo good at it, my friend! They’ve been controlling this stuff at least since the Civil War and probably long before. Have a look at ol' George Lincoln Rockwell, founder of the American Nazi Party and an acclaimed U.S. Navy commander and pilot—his 'movement' never had much in the way of supporters, but George was wildly promoted in the mainstream, even appearing in the lyrics of Bob Dylan's 'Talkin’ John Birch Paranoid Blues.' Well, it makes sense, I guess, since George Lincoln's parents were both comedians and actors. Propping up the K.K.K. and others of that ilk, and black militant groups of all stripes has been a delightfully successful policy for the American ruling class—they’ve successfully kept Americans at each other’s throats for generations, arguing and fighting over the false concept of ‘race’ and thus keeping their eyes and energies off the overlords who run and ruin everything.”

“But—”

“At the end of the Civil War, Frederick Douglass demanded that America’s whites simply ‘let the black man alone.’ ‘Do nothing with us!’ he demanded. ‘Your doing with us has already played the mischief with us.’ In his April 1965 speech, Douglass continued, ‘If the negro cannot stand on his own legs, let him fall also. All I ask is, give him a chance to stand on his own legs! Let him alone! If you see him on his way to school, let him alone, don’t disturb him! If you see him going to the dinner table at a hotel, let him go! If you see him going to the ballot box, let him alone, don't disturb him! If you see him going into a workshop, just let him alone—your interference is doing him positive injury.’”

“But—”

“But oh, no—oh no no no no no, Vlado! America’s ruling Nazis are incapable of leaving anybody alone to do their own thing, especially the Black Man. From Day One they’ve been dreaming up ways of how to kill and maim the Black Man and use him to terrorize and entertain and terror-tain whites, particularly the poor and working-class whites who might conceivably join with the blacks in a movement to tear down the unfair class structure.”

“But—”

“Right now, you see, the overlords are getting their big payoff for all the years of pushing race narratives, the queer agenda, of promoting transgender and ‘do what thou wilt’ to the general public via mass media. Many ‘average white joes’ are beyond fed up with the complaining and nonstop victimhood they see on T.V. and the internets. They’ve had it with the guys who claim they’re female and say they want to chop off their pee-pees so they can play women’s sports. They’re finished with the obese people with blue or pink hair who sit there lecturing on what words can and can’t be said. They’re done with the crying people pleading for ‘safe spaces’ to be protected from people saying or wearing things they don’t like. Maybe a certain type of dupe thought America was becoming cooler in the last decade or so—‘Look, we’ve got a black president who’s telling us to be nice to queers and transgenders and not to say mean things! Look, the president is on our side, tee-hee!’ But it was only a set-up, Vlado—preparation for the imposition of the police state.”

“But—”

“Again, they are always thinking two, three, four steps ahead. Now, after all this ‘Negro wilding,’ the counter-revolution is primed! From Weimar Berlin to the Nazis in 1933—this time, right there in America! Identity politics turns out to have been just another divide and conquer strategy, helping nobody but the rulers in the end.”

“But—”

“If you’re going to impose a global Nazi despotism, you’re going to need people on board for it, Vlado. They’ve maneuvered the ordinary man exactly where they want him—fearful, angry, looking for ‘order’ and an ‘end to the madness.’ They’ve successfully set the stage, Vlado, to call everyone a terrorist protester or someone who carries a killer virus. Get ready: At a moment’s notice they may have to test your temperature and antibodies, as well as inspect through your social media postings and all emails.”

“But—”

Oh no no no—oh yes yes yes! These days, we’re all regarded as suspects and possible perps by the leading psychopaths and Satanic controllers. They are feeling confident. They are feeling the wind at their backs. They are experts at using trickery to open the gates to more oppression and brutality. And they are used to getting what they want, and they seem to be getting impatient. And they are thinking big—very big, Vlado. Whatever’s coming next is coming fast—it will be near impossible to get out of the way. Duck! Watch out! Keep your head down! Stay out of the way! Don’t say nothin’ that could make you a suspect or cause them to question your loyalty! Ho ho ho! Ha ha ha! Hee hee hee!”


Thor Garcia

The News Clown A Novel by Thor Garcia by Thor Garcia

The Apocalypse of St. Cleo by Thor Garcia

Only Fools Die of Heartbreak Stories by Thor Garcia by Thor Garcia

TUND Short Stories by Thor Garcia by Thor Garcia
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Published on June 04, 2020 07:59 Tags: dsytopia, fools, riots, spooks, thor-garcia, u-s-a, whores

May 27, 2020

WHORES OF DYSTOPIA: Buckle Up—The Death Match is ON, Says Irish Setter!

May everyone live
May everyone die
Hello, my love
And my love, goodbye.

—Field Commander Cohen, “Here It Is,” 2001

PRAGUE (CNS)—Paul was sitting in the backyard drinking another beer. He was disheartened, draped in melancholy.

It had become difficult to gain traction—difficult to think clearly because of the constantly mutating implications—of everything.

The rug had been pulled. What was the use of doing anything if they were just going to squish everyone like bugs? Economic depression, rioting, famines, wars, chemical vaccinations, chipping, 5G evaporating the water in your cells, “health passports,” surveillance of every move and relationship, government/Big Tech censorship of frowned upon/unapproved content, universal basic income, world currency, cashless society—global and local totalitarian techno-dictatorships led by medical-military tyrants—

It was all screaming at light speed down the pipeline.

Yes, the bad ol’ future was coming fast—the one foretold in hundreds of books and films, in hundreds of fact-based predictions written by dystopia planners, conspiracy realists and coincidence researchers.

To ignore it, to imagine you’d breeze through it, to imagine this was just a detour and we’d all soon be back on Glory Road—that was nuttiest of all.

If they were going to tag and number and stick their probes up everyone’s ass—and eventually squish us like bugs—hell, just hell. Paul shook his head and swigged from his bottle.

He laughed, thinking of his dentist, Stroužek, who had ushered Paul to his appointment dressed in a full-body bright-white hazmat suit with neon-yellow patches. The dentist’s entire head was hidden within a bubble-like, matte-black respirator.

“I have not been on a public bus for 2.5 months,” Stroužek had said, his voice coming through a small speaker on the respirator. “If you wish to stay safe and protect those around you, the only way is to wear what I am wearing.”

Paul had guffawed and shook his head, but had remained quiet.

At the end of the appointment, the dentist had asked Paul to drop his cash money into a plastic basin filled three inches deep with liquid sanitizer. Paul did so. Stroužek’s assistant, gloved, masked and goggled, carried the basin to the back room to wash the currency.

“Soon, we will not have paper money or coins,” said Strožek. “It is ancient technology. It will be better to be only plastic.”

Paul didn’t agree—but arguing with his dentist, about anything, had never been on the agenda.

“Floss, floss, floss!” Strožek barked as Paul walked out.

Yep—everything was over. This goddamn world—it was over.

Everything Paul had been interested in before mid-March 2020—his streetball career, his study of books, music and cartoons, his skirt-chasing, his half-hearted whoring about for fame and fortune, even his drinking—now seemed useless child’s play. It seemed so innocent, so naïve—so small and, yes, so worthless. He hadn’t been preparing for the Big Game in the slightest. But now it was here—the Big Game was all there was.

The Satanic pedophile overlords had long ago reached the conclusion that 7 billion people worth of humanity was no longer necessary—just not necessary. Hell, they chiseled it into rock, for everyone to see, on the Georgia Guidestones.

And they had finally taken clear, unmistakable action to end the scourge—and in a clever, deceptive way that ensured their own positions were never even slightly at risk.

And the ordinary Joes and Jessicas were too brainwashed to see it. Very few had dared raise a finger against this epic, slow-motion catastrophe. They were stooges and dupes, skilled only at repeating the lies that were shouted the loudest. It was as if they had been hypnotized into docility and cowardliness—even as their own destruction approached. And yes—they had. The goddamn smartphones and television and radio waves and school system were to blame—everybody had been infantilized. The schemes to implant learned helplessness and unquestioning obedience to the prerogatives of power had been a triumph.

Ya gotta look up to see what’s coming down—and people could not get their noses out of their phones to save themselves.

And folks were gonna get squished—but not by any virus.

What was the new official Infection Fatality Rate of the so-called COVID-19 disease? As of the last week of May in supposedly hard-hit U.S.A., it was 0.26%.

Pathetic, just goddamn sad. Hell in a bottle of rancid burger sauce, thought Paul—this meant there was virtually no chance an ordinary person, even one in lousy health, would die from this alleged virus. No chance.

And this was the latest percentage put out by the thoroughly corrupt, untrustworthy, Big Pharma-controlled U.S. Centers for Disease Control and Prevention (CDC).

Think about that: the 0.26% was based on already fake stats—the ones in which the COVID-19 numbers were bumped up by the CDC, which had ordered hospitals to log every 80-year-old who died of cardiovascular disease or dementia or cancer as a “COVID-19 death.” On top of that, hospitals in the U.S.A. were getting $39,000 in cold hard federal cash for each declared “coronavirus patient” they tubed up on a ventilator to kill them quicker.

That’s what’s called using unethical incentives to jack up the numbers to achieve your sadistic political/socioeconomic goals.

Which meant, thought Paul, that the “true Infection Fatality Rate” was definitely not 0.26%—but more like 0.0%—or yes, nonexistent.

Paul fumed, smoked a cigarette and drained his beer bottle. 0.26% was a long, long way from the 3.4% fatality rate claimed by the thoroughly corrupt, Bill Gates-controlled World Health Organization (WHO) back in February. That outright lie, combined with the outright false projections of millions of dead put forward by Bill Gates-controlled hack U.K. scientist Neil Ferguson and Bill Gates-controlled hack U.S. scientist Anthony Fauci, had booted media hysterics, and subsequent societal fear, into the stratosphere.

It was nothing more than a common cold, of the kind that struck every winter. That was obvious from the start—that is, if you understood that the running dogs of Big Government and Big Media lie and misdirect at every turn, as a matter of policy and profession—and if you had bothered to pick apart the stats offered by WHO and the CDC back in February, as Paul had.

Nope—COVID-19 existed exactly as much as the 19 hijackers of 9/11 did: Not at all.

What did that tell you?

What it told you was: The fix was in. They had done the lockdowns, destroyed the economy, and made everyone wear masks, as if in some worldwide Satanic ritual, because . . . They were coming to kill everybody.

That’s exactly what it told you, if you knew anything about anything.

And, Paul had to admit, the black magick trick had been executed flawlessly.

It was coronahoax—the strange pandemic in which no one died or got sick, but the government and media lapdogs, working in cahoots for the Satanic pedophile overlords, cranked up the fake numbers and told you to be afraid—to be very, very, very afraid, and to go along with their schemes to destroy your standard of living, what few freedoms you had left, and your sanity.

Through this unlikely tool, the overlords had launched their long-planned Endgame to wipe out the huge masses of sheeple. It was over.

The coronahoax—the kick off of the Endgame in which millions, and probably billions, would end up dying, over the next few years.

Mass chaos, a great grinding of teeth, and worldwide wailing were coming down the pike. Paul felt it—he goddamn felt it.

Paul saw an Irish setter leap over the fence, skip through the bushes and jump the four feet from the sunken garden to the garage roof.

The dog loped across the lawn, slightly grinning, and came to a stop at Paul’s feet.

“Hey, Paul,” said the dog. “What’s the matter? Coronahoax Blues got ya down?”

description


“I guess so,” said Paul. “What do you care?”

“Shoot, I don’t care,” said the Irish setter. “Dogs only care a tiny bit about people. We want you to feed us and give us a warm, dry place to sleep. And we don’t like being kicked by mean people, or children trying to tear out our eyes. After that, though, we feel it’s nice if you’re happy.”

“Oh, screw off!” said Paul. “Can’t you see they’re trying to kill us—and they’ve launched the Endgame with this idiotic fake virus plot? Aw, hell—who cares what a dog thinks! You have no idea what’s going on.”

“Oh, but I do,” said the dog. “Coronavirus—‘the crown poison.’ Funny name, isn’t it, brings to mind a few associations. They’ve planned it for years, down to the last detail, while leaving lots of wriggle room for unexpected events. Have a look at the opening ceremony of the 2012 London Olympics—it was right there, right in front of you: hundreds of hospital beds and dancing nurses. As you know, Paul, that’s called ‘predictive programming.’ They were telling you exactly what was coming, both to warn you and to toot their own horn. To paraphrase your American president F.D.R., In politics, nothing happens by accident. If it happens, you can bet it was planned that way.

“True enough,” said Paul, taking another swig and lighting a cigarette. “You’re starting to talk sense.”

“You’re enough of a conspiracy realism student to have caught on to this coronahoax fraud early,” said the dog. “But who cares, it doesn’t matter in the slightest. The rulers reveal things to those that are paying attention because they want to be acclaimed for their sorcery. They will go so far as to put announcements of their events in the Olympics opening ceremonies and to create controlled opposition media outlets—just to spread word of their evil deeds. What use is controlling everything unless at least a few people know about it?”

“Sure, that’s obvious,” said Paul.

“But things are worse than even you think, Paul,” continued the dog. “Most people are in a haze right now, but you’re on the right track. Buckle up, kid—this is the Death Match of the Century. The 'divide' phase has been a roaring success—now they're moving into full 'conquer' mode. The question is, Who's gonna stop 'em? Answer: Nobody. This scam and culling will be celebrated for 1,000 years by the Satanic elites. They'll sacrifice and consume 1,000 babies to honor it. It’s been going on for a while now—the war pitting you and other decent, freedom-loving folk against the slave masters and their willing slaves and executioners. It may last a few years, maybe even a decade, maybe a couple of decades—but ordinary humanity doesn’t stand a chance. The future is violence. The future is crime. The future is them conquering your ass. The rulers are going to cut the population of you folks down by one-third or one-half or maybe even more. They’re going to depopulate your ass, Paulie boy. As you like to say, ‘Take a look at the odd case of the Georgia Guidestones.’”

“Damn it,” said Paul. “Damn it all to hell!”

“Sometimes it might seem that the little guy is winning,” said the setter, “like when a lockdown gets lifted, like now in the Czech Republic—but something like that is temporary at best, a commercial break between segments of the Big Game. There’ll always be a second wave, a third wave, a new bug, some new danger that they must protect you from by imprisoning and drugging you. They’ve got you where they want you—and they’re not going to let up until they get exactly what they want, which is a lot fewer of you guys, people, I mean. But there’ll still be lots of plenty of pretty dogs like me around.”

“Yeah, that makes sense,” said Paul.

Paul had to admit the Irish setter was beautiful: Long and tall, lithe and elegant, with a silky, luxurious dark mahogany coat and long, wonderfully floppy ears. Muscular, too, with a mighty chest and lean, sinewy rear legs. It had friendly, warm, intelligent eyes, a slightly moist nose, healthy white teeth, a bit of foam at the corners of the mouth. Maybe, thought Paul, he hadn’t seen a better-looking dog.

Paul opened another beer, took a swig and held out his right hand. The dog placed his paw in Paul’s hand.

“Nice to meet you,” said Paul. “What’s your name?”

“I’m Ingo, your guardian Irish setter,” said the dog. “Why are you drinking so much these days, Paul? The end is near, sure—but now is not the time to be drowning your sorrows or going on days-long flights of morbid fancy, as you’re prone to do. Do you want to go out sadly and quietly, on your knees, doing what they tell you—or do you want to raise a ruckus, just for old time’s sake, just because you’re Paul? Not that it matters—it’s all O.K. by me. Only a few are going to survive—but there’s lots you can do before they call your number, Paulie boy.”

“Hell, I guess so,” said Paul. “I’m just not in the mood for any of this B.S. It’s annoying. The Greatest Depression. That’ll be ugly. Crime’s gonna go through the ceiling. We’ll have to fight like a bunch of dicks, we’ll have to turn into bunch of assholes, just to keep the rats out of our hair. There’ll probably be food shortages, the water and power will go out for months, no one will know what’s going on. Hundreds of millions will fall by the wayside due to unemployment, drug addiction, suicide, homelessness. Ugh. Then there’ll probably be a big war or two to knock out a few billion, mainly the Indians and Chinese. Starvation will probably kill another billion or two in China, India, Africa, elsewhere. Hundreds of millions will be slowly picked off by the poison vaccinations and the chipping. And the freaks will do it according to the dictates of their Satanic rituals and pedophiliac predilections. It’s not going to be fun.”

“You feel helpless, Paul, I understand,” said Ingo. “You’re disappointed because the weaknesses of people have been cruelly exposed. You wanted to believe your fellow human being is strong and intelligent, but most are not. Even more, the weakness, hollowness, and grotesque servility of Western peoples, hell, of people around the world, has been exposed. The global common man was revealed as out of shape, rotten of body and mind, utterly beaten down by his masters. He failed to rise to the challenge when his livelihood, the fact of his existence and what his life might mean, came under ferocious attack.”

“Yes,” said Paul. “Yes, Ingo. It has been depressing. It has been distressing and revolting.”

“What happened at lightning speed in the spring of 2020,” said the Irish setter, “was that your civilization repudiated its philosophical and ideological foundation, which had taken hundreds of years and thousands of struggles to develop. It revealed that it was not vibrant and strong, but piss-poor and sad-sack. A strong society would have ignored this virus and carried on without missing a step. Or, if the virus was real, which it’s not, a strong civilization would have found a way to fight it without surrendering its ideals. It would have built hospitals, cared for the sick, and ensured, above all, that its citizens’ rights were not trampled. There would have been no lockdowns, no states of emergency, no forced stoppages of production and economic activity, no restrictions on freedom of movement or gathering or anything of the sort. But all guarantees of freedom were torn up and thrown away with nary a comment or protest. All the constitutions and so-called inalienable rights were revealed to be what they always were: conditional, not serious, easily ignored with a stroke of the pen. Whatever rights and laws you thought would protect you are long gone, Paul. You have no rights to freedom of movement or privacy or anything like that. You are now at the mercy of the arbitrary pronouncements of small and large dictators. The happy-face illusion has been ripped away, never to return in your lifetime, or maybe ever.”

“I feel sick,” said Paul. He gulped down his beer. “All of this is just sickening.”

“I feel for you, Paul,” said Ingo. “Along with destroying the foundations of so-called liberal democracy, they’ve killed whatever tiny amount of real capitalism existed. They’ve wiped out small, truly independent businesspeople and creative forces who had a shot at competing with the crony capitalist bloodsuckers or finding a viable niche. They’ll never get another real shot—the crony fascist behemoths have seen to that. And the crony fascists are feasting on trillions in free money gifted to them by the government servants. Pretty soon, everybody will be lining up to get their rations, stuffed with mood drugs, chemical additives and nanoparticles, from some cruddy chain outlet of the crony fascists.”

“See what I mean, Ingo?” grumbled Paul. “Who wants to go through this? It seems both painful and dull.”

“I know, Paul, I know,” said Ingo. “What you’ll be left with is some hideous combination of fascism and communism, with a special role for surveillance agencies and health authorities to look into your affairs whenever they or their algorithms deem necessary. Yes—it’s going to be the kakistocracy, super-dystopian edition. Have no doubt, these people are none-too-smart techno-goons: They have the networking tools and the algorithms to control you from afar via machines, without disturbing their manicures and augmented reality lifestyles. Sooner or later, the machines with their faulty and unjust algorithms will rule, untroubled by human oversight. You shall slave and the machine shall determine whether you receive your chits to buy your slop rations.”

“It’s all coming true,” said Paul, “every last one of the dystopian books and movies. The Book of Revelations. Logan’s Run. WALL-E. Rollerball. Bug. The Beast in Space.

“That’s one of the reasons they deliberately dynamited the economy and enforced the masks and social distancing,” continued Ingo. “Social and legal norms had to be wrecked to completely reshape society and work systems. Democracy has been flipped: People have allowed the governments to claim all authority and do as they wish without constraint. Meanwhile, citizens can do what used to be normal things only if they receive permission from the authorities. You’ve got the mask on—but they’ve taken the mask off to reveal their rule by brute force. Yes, we’re at this point, Paulie boy—it has arrived. Allowing them to go full-bore tyrannical is easy enough—but getting out, once you tire of it, is nearly impossible without wholesale destruction. Unfortunately, I don’t think there’s any chance of you guys getting out of this alive.”

“It’s hopeless!” wailed Paul. “We don’t have a chance. People can’t fight this! Among people I know, the most educated, the so-called smartest, are the ones who’ve been conned by the coronahoax propaganda the most. They would be no help at all in any resistance. You’ve either got to beat the overlords with superior brains or superior force, and we’ve got neither.”

“You were disarmed long ago,” said Ingo. “And yes, the people touted as ‘intellectuals,’ or usually, who tout themselves as intellectuals, are usually the most gullible to the tricks and mind control. They trust authority because authority has enabled them to rise to their current positions, whatever they may be. That’s why a lockdown is a luxury most intellectuals, who squat in high-tech offices and ivory towers, can afford—unlike people who’ve got to work for a living. Most intellectuals are usually inflexible thinkers, never doubting their capacities, believing they got where they are because they are ‘smarter’ than most—rather than because they are more obedient and better rule-followers than most. They are usually closed to new paradigms, to adapting to information that contrasts with what they’ve based their careers on. If they or the authorities didn’t think of it, they doubt its value. So they’re pretty much useless.”

“Worse than useless,” said Paul. “Their ideas are mostly a mishmash of reheated Marxism and Situationism, combined with the Frankfurt School and facile irony, mixed with extreme academically and politically correct notions like pro-transgenderism and the holy church of poststructuralism. They love how the coronahoax lockdowns are supposedly destroying Big Business and saving the planet from global warming. What a joke—they’ve been totally propagandized! When it comes to a confrontation or taking a risk, they get confused and always put their tail between their legs, running back to their safe office cubicle and not raising a peep. Also, they never acknowledge being wrong about anything, let alone apologize for it after dragging you through a stupid debate about a topic they later turned out to be wrong about.”

“Well, but don’t be angry at people, Paul,” said Ingo. “What good does it do? If certain people are not going to help, what’s the use of continuing to deal with them? Just move on. People in constant fear are holding on to anger and confusion. It makes rational thought impossible.”

“What I will say,” said Paul, “is that this crisis has shown how people really are—that is: Are they a freedom fighter, a coward, a blind kowtower to authority, an ideological slave, an opportunist looking for a safe spot? As in, ‘What did you do when they announced everybody was going to die from a virus that doesn’t exist?’ Did you believe it, doubt it, hide under the couch, stand up to fight?”

“Yes,” said Ingo. “Well, Paulie boy, I must be going now. Was indeed a rare pleasure to talk to you. Best of luck with everything. Just one thing—I would advise you not to get vaccinated or to allow your loved ones to be vaccinated. These vaccines are, at minimum, filled with mercury and aluminum and animal cells and the cells of aborted human fetuses. Getting vaccinated injects demons into your bloodstream, locking disease within you. And with any new vaccine, such as for the coronahoax, they will be sure to add a few surprises to ensure that you get sick and die.”

“I ain’t gonna let ‘em stick a thing in me!” said Paul. “But wait, Ingo—you’re leaving? Why? Whatever for? Where’s your owner? Are you lost? Come on, stay here. You can stay here as long as you want.”

“No, Paul, I’m sorry,” said Ingo. “Nobody owns me. Just like nobody owns you. I do what I want—just like you need to start doing. You’re a freedom fighter, Paul, but sometimes your drinking freezes you. You need to put down the bottle and get off your ass. Yes, we all know you came to Prague to drink in peace, and to chase women, and to be away from the bastards. Lately, though, it seems you’ve been drinking out of regret over what’s been lost due this coronahoax catastrophe. That’s a no-no. That’s not the Paul I know. The Paul I know drinks to celebrate how amazing his life is—not to wallow in misery and foreboding. The Paul I know drinks to celebrate his categorical victory over the bastards—not because he’s feeling sad.”

“Aw, hell!” said Paul. “But I feel lousy. This whole thing is making me feel stupid. I don’t like this Endgame hassle. I don’t like feeling like a trapped rat.”

“Exactly,” said Ingo. “As I said before, there’s no escape. Listen again, Paul: This is the Death Match of the Century. The Death Match. The humans against the anti-human humans. There is nothing they will not do to achieve their aims. And the ordinary humans have already been checkmated by their superiors—all that can be done now is to confront The Beast and fight the Death Match to the best of one’s ability. Do not sit around, hoping everything will be O.K. If you do that, you will be easily annihilated. Figure out what you are willing to do and not do—and stick to it. I’m sure, Paul, that you would dearly love to arm yourself to the teeth and build an underground survivalist fort on a mountain peak, but there’s not really time for that anymore, is there?”

Paul gritted his teeth angrily. He gulped from his beer and lit another cigarette.

“Hanging in the pack, hoping to shuffle through—again, that won’t cut it,” continued Ingo. “As a first step, I recommend ending all involvement in all unsocial media. These are evil mind-control sites that spy and manipulate your emotions and flood your brain and soul with propaganda and discordianism, funneling you toward one destination: obeying the dictates of the overlords. Drop the unsocial media shackles and immediately begin to feel better. Watch as enthusiasm and energy reanimate your life. Watch your mind and options expand. The time for childish games and hoping for a miracle turnaround ended long ago, Paulie boy. Let the battles—the coming battles, the battles that are already under way—lift your spirit and sharpen your mind. You can control very, very little—but let your conduct in the things you can control be of the highest quality and impact. That’s all for now.”

“But, Ingo, but—hey!”

The Irish setter jumped up and shook itself. It turned and jogged down the path, hopped to the garage roof, sprang onto the sunken garden and vaulted over the picket fence.

Paul heard Ingo’s claws clatter against the pavement. He sighed. He sat back in his chair, cracked open another beer, and squinted into the late afternoon sun.

Thor Garcia

Only Fools Die of Heartbreak Stories by Thor Garcia by Thor Garcia

The Apocalypse of St. Cleo by Thor Garcia

TUND Short Stories by Thor Garcia by Thor Garcia

The News Clown A Novel by Thor Garcia by Thor Garcia
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Published on May 27, 2020 07:41 Tags: blog, coronavirus, covid-19, death-match, dogs, dystopia, endgame, thor-garcia

April 6, 2020

WHORES OF DYSTOPIA: ‘Virus’ Hoax A Flop—Yet The Endgame Cometh—The Endgame Arriveth!

PRAGUE (CNS)—“Darn it, we’ve been farking had again!” raged Paul. “This coronavirus hoax is the biggest, most vile occult magick trick that’s ever been played. It’s bigger than 9/11, bigger than J.F.K., bigger than the Charlie Manson scam, bigger than the Apollo moonshot hoaxes, maybe even bigger than Pearl Harbor. The Satanic pedophile overlords have got people running scared, locked in their homes, wearing masks and spraying everything with chemicals, lapping up fear propaganda like hungry, thirsty dogs, whining and endlessly washing their hands and doing exactly what they’re told—over the farking common cold!"

"It's insane!" screamed Tolby.

"‘Social distancing’ equals ‘no resistancing’ to this diabolical scheme," said Paul, "and it’s already way too late, pally-wally: This coronahoax is a 9/11-style paradigm-shifter, a ‘before and after’ situation—and we are already neck-deep in the ‘after.’ The world we knew before the coronahoax no longer exists. We’re in uncharted territory, completely at the mercy of depraved arseholes whom we didn’t have the guts to remove when we had half a chance. The economic system was so corrupt, mismanaged, unjust and drowning in debt that it was nonstop failing, with even worse failures in store—so they decided to engineer this 'crisis' and rewire the entire socioeconomic and political structure in their favor—even more so than it already was."

"Argh!" wailed Tolby. "I can't take any more!"

"Or," continued Paul, "do you really think it was ‘an honest coincidence’ that the virus crisis emerged just as the world economy was cruising toward a well-deserved meltdown due to its degeneracy, hypocrisy, cronyism and just plain theft that had grown beyond all measure? Do you? No—there’s no such thing as coincidence—certainly not at this level, and not at these stakes. Do you really think they sent the globe into a Greater Depression—just to let some old sick people live a few months longer? Do you? Wake up! Until now, everyone’s been content to let the old, sick, fat and addicted die lonely, painful, nightmarish deaths—and we did just fine. Now, it’s supposedly the biggest threat to civilization. Nope, Tolby, the fix is in. They’re trying to bring us to our knees over these lies! People are going to wake up in chains and wonder what the hell happened. They’re going to wonder why they ran straight into the arms of their captor.”

“This isn’t a pandemic—it’s a planned-demic!” screamed Tolby. “Rearrange the letters of coronavirus and what do you get? You get ‘Con or a virus?’ Answer: It’s a total con, man! They’re point-blank telling us! It's a scam-demic!”

“Precisely,” said Paul. “The pretext for this coronahoax trauma-based psy-op has been preposterous from the start, whipped up by hysterical, orchestrated intel-controlled news media ululating, without shame or even the slimmest regard for truth, to terrorize people into fearful obedience: Oh dear god no, our healthcare systems won’t be able to handle the unbelievable crush of people who’ve got this new flu-like cold from China! Hospitals all over the world are overrun every year with deadly cold and flu cases, but this is different—because we say so! We’ll have to swim through the corpses, we’ll be up to our chests in dead bodies! Run and hide—run and hide, motherfarkers! Do what we say right now or you’ll all die! They warned about needing hundreds of thousands of ventilators—otherwise known as ‘death machines’ that do little to save anyone whose breathing is so far gone that they need one. Did you believe any of that for a second, Tolby? I never did. The media has been lying its ass off, jabbering about an ‘unrelenting tsunami of retching, dying people still to come.’ But the coronahoax health apocalypse has not materialized—and will not materialize. In the U.S.A., U.K., Italy, Germany and probably everywhere else except China, it doesn’t matter if you die of cancer or heart disease or diabetes or an overdose or physician error—they mark you down as a corona victim and pretend this is making things hard on hospitals—just to push the propaganda, economic collapse and police state lockdown. It’s utter crap—utter! Officials and agencies have admitted, in written statements on the record, that this is the policy—if someone dies, just say it was the virus that done it! COVID-19 is the cover for cranking up the death and murder numbers to push the fear through the stratosphere during this 'operational' phase of the exercise. Because big numbers really scare people. Plus: Nice choice of name! COVID is so very much like a CORVID, those spooky beaked masks worn by doctors during the Black Death of the 14th century. And no trauma-based psy-op worthy of its name is complete without an official version and an ‘official alternative’ story. The official story, of course, at least so far, remains that this coronavirus came from monkeys farking bats in the dirty, filthy 'wet market' backstreets of China. Then reckless Chinese dudes came along and ate or smoked the bats, kicking off the pandemic. Or something. Well, whatever. The ‘official alternative’ version is that the virus is a U.S. or Chinese bioweapon designed in some lab. One version alleges that U.S. troops released the virus when they traveled to Wuhan, China, alleged 'ground zero' for the virus, for the 'world military Olympics' or some such ridiculous thing, in October 2019. That's just obvious nonsense and misdirection—these wild goose tales don’t add up in the slightest! Nobody would be so stupid as to release an actual uncontrollable bioweapon, not even the Americans or Chinese. Even if you were murderously hellbent on worldwide suicide, this dog-and-pony show is not how you would do it. These stories are pure fantasy and fiction spread by agents in the press. They’re pre-planned dead ends, something written into the script designed to gull the gullible and whip up a bit of ethnic tension among the racists on both sides. Of course, we can't exclude that this virus is the result of some kind of lab 'tinkering,' malicious or not, somewhere somehow by somebody, but that info is not in yet—definitely not. We'll have to wait and see what the next made-up story might be. As of now, this is just a farking common cold. And because of the nonstop propaganda, everyone's in a farking tizzy.”

“Argh, of course!” said Tolby. “It’s so frigging obvious! Every two years some new supervirus supposedly comes along. It gets promoted on the news, and everybody drowns it out because it’s just so much obvious b.s. Well, we dropped our guard—and this is what they’ve done, when we least expected it. The time was ripe indeed to have another big run on the treasuries and to whip people like the whimpering dogs we are.”

“And their so-called ‘exponential math’ and modeling," said Paul, "has been nothing but black-magick trickery, a spell to frighten and con everyone—and it’s worked perfectly. The so-called testing has been sketchy and compromised from the get-go. The quantitative basis has been simply too small and dodgy to be reliable—but that hasn’t stopped the police-staters and economy-crashers—which shows that ending the world as we knew it has been the plan all along. The world’s now reeling from a mass panic and surrender to the psychos who run the banks, military, media and big business. They’ve been raiding the national treasuries for trillions worth of ‘stimulus’ for the economies they just wrecked, with more to come. When the Depression starts to hit, they’ll blame the virus. Most people will just nod their heads. It's not about the transfer of instantly creatable, invisible dollars to billionaires—it’s about the destruction of the livelihoods of billions of people and the devastation that will ripple through societies due to epidemic homelessness, petty and major theft, suicide, murder and other violent crimes. The breakdown of supply chains will lead to mass starvation, riots, censorship, rule by military governors—it’s all coming. It's a rain of ballistic missiles into the middle class—with the aim of finally killing it off—because a healthy middle class doesn't need a ruling class and is always a threat to kick out the rulers. The obvious goal is to reduce society to a pacified mass of the impoverished, powerless and uneducated, ruled by a tiny 'let them eat cake' layer at the top. Viciously exterminate those who get ornery. Small and medium-sized businesses are kaput, their market share gobbled by the mega-corporations. Yes, they are prepared to sacrifice SMBs so that the giant corporations might survive to triumph and take ever-greater profits in exchange for ever-shoddier goods and services, what a coincidence! The big dogs will be snapping up all independently owned outlets for pennies on the dollar, marking another monumental theft and upward transfer of wealth. Meanwhile, the protests and strikes in Hong Kong, France, Spain, South America, the U.S. and everywhere have disappeared. All challenges to the authorities everywhere have disappeared. Just because we must be protected by a police state from this coronahoax virus.”

“Argh!” wailed Tolby. “We’re sitting ducks for whatever’s coming down the pike, man! We’re B.F. Skinner’s pigeons! We’re Pavlov’s dogs!”

“But,” continued Paul, “if we’ve learned anything from our decades of studying 9/11 and all the other trumped-up wars, hoaxes and false flags, we know that deception, from beginning to end, is the governing principle of intel agency-controlled mainstream media and politics—and this coronahoax is a master class in it. Wake up, man! This hoax is from the same folks who brought us ‘Islamic terrorist stunt airliner superpilots,’ and ‘sorry, no video of a plane hitting the Pentagon,’ and ‘really, the plane disappeared into the ground in Pennsylvania, it really did!’ and ‘honest, WTC 7 fell down because of a big structural fire,’ and ‘Iraqi weapons of mass destruction,’ and ‘Russia stole our fake elections’ and ‘the gangly Sandy Hook kid who didn’t exist,’ and ‘the Obviously Fake Las Vegas Massacre,’ and 'Jeffrey Epstein committed suicide in maximum security prison but nobody saw nuthin' and we got no video, nobody and nuthin', come on, just trust us!' and Jonestown and 'Unbelievably Second-Rate Stagecraft' Christchurch and the Skripals who choked on 'Novichok' and the shady Boston Marathon hijinks and Anders 'I Killed 77 Norwegians By Myself, Really, I Did!' Breivik and Sutherland Springs and many more mind-control operations. Once you finally understand, after years of struggle and study, that the overlords rule by black magick, and that 9/11 was in fact a giant Satanic ritual carried out in public, then you will begin to see past the crude machinations of media and discover a truer reality hiding in plain sight—a reality so obvious you'll kick yourself for not breaking your binds and seeing it earlier. In any case, if we shouldn’t have believed these clowns in those other cases, why are we believing them now? Won’t get fooled again, eh? Meet the new boss—same as the old boss, eh? Well, coronahoax is a game for all the marbles—that’s what’s changed, Tolby. This time, the state has pulled out all the stops: They’ve put us under house arrest and ordered us to cover our faces—to protect us from something we can’t see and that they themselves can’t even completely define. That’s called Endgame, Tolby. It’s called Big Lie Meets The Endgame—a tacky B-horror shown on all TV screens everywhere all the time, transfixing the global population in fear. Yo, listen up, man! We’ve been slickly maneuvered into a global concentration camp from which there will be no exit. Now what we gonna do? Who we gonna call?”

“Argh!” wailed Tolby, wrenching the caps off two more bottles of beer. “We’re frogs in the proverbial boiling pot! We’ve taken the express train to Serfdom City! They’re going to tag us like the cattle and sheeple we truly are!”

“Sure,” said Paul, “and crazily, we’re still in the pre-slaughter phase—the stripping-your-enemy-of-his-tools-of-defense phase. As the economic collapse gains pace, with Great Depression-style unemployment, homelessness and suicide, we’ll be looking at curfews and army checkpoints on the streets. Entire regions, even entire countries, may be allowed to descend into lawless, no-go, survival-of-the-fittest, hunt-and-be-hunted wastelands ruled by Mad Max-style gangs. In areas under the yoke of authorities, the governors will ease or tighten the screws depending on how cooperative individual populations are. Regime dissidents may conveniently be found to be 'virus superspreaders' who need to be forcibly quarantined on distant military bases. When they tighten the screws, they’ll just say there’s been ‘an uptick in coughing and temperatures among our loyal citizens,’ or that ‘the deadly virus has mutated, according to our heroic doctors and scientists.’ That’s always been the sickening beauty of COVID-19 as a propaganda weapon, as first promoted in China and then everywhere else: You may have symptoms of this most horrible thing or you might not. You can spread this horrible thing for 14 or 17 days or longer or who knows! The test may find it in you or it may not—we may have to keep retesting! The test has many false positives and many false negatives, or true positives and true negatives, it can go back and forth! The test actually only detects genetic sequences of the virus, not the virus itself—we know, it’s wacky! The test has so many problems it’s basically worthless, but still we use it because most living creatures have a coronavirus in them! We’re not sure how long you might be contagious or when you might or might not get it, so continue to be worried, continue to be afraid—and above all, keep doing what we tells ya, it’s for ya own good! Wear your muzzle—er, mask—at all times. No talking! No looking! And no breathing, ‘cause that’s how ya spread corona cooties! The overlords would never have created or released something that was truly contagious and lethal and would kill millions. They wouldn’t survive that, nobody would. Plus, like nuclear bombs and so-called artificial intelligence and flying spaceships to the moon, it’s doubtful they could actually create and effectively spread something that would make huge numbers of people suddenly collapse and die. We understand that scientism is the religion of today—but like their religious brethren, most so-called scientists are little more than hucksters and malarkey salesmen, self-promoters looking for an easy buck from the military, corporate and university overlords. So immediately, we enter into the sphere of, ‘Coronavirus is a likely psy-op mind-control lying operation.’ And they have used compromised data sets to make predictions using exponential math—otherwise known as damn lies—that the intel-controlled media then trumpet as fact. Since when did we start believing any of these sell-out professors, doctors and other shills who suck from the government and military teats? These are the people who do the studies approving cancer-causing stuff like glyphosates and genetically modified organisms. These are the people who figure out how to spread depleted uranium and cluster bombs in the nations that get bombed. These are the people who still tell you that the debilitating neurotoxin fluoride is good for your health! The U.S. Centers for Disease Control and Prevention still lists community water fluoridation as one of the '10 greatest public health advances of the 20th century'! In any case, the truth or untruth of the coronahoax virus doesn’t really matter, because we can see that the objective of this operation has always been to crash the economy, torpedo the middle class and increase the oppression and subservience of ordinary people. First, they’ll make violators of the rules start wearing ankle monitoring devices. Later, they’ll just take them straight to prison without a hearing or formal charges. And the overlords pay their police and soldiers very well—those poor bastards can be relied upon to shoot down anybody they’re told to shoot. The overlord vampires have got an unbeatable whip hand right now. Just you wait: Soon they will render habeas corpus null and void.”

“We’re under frigging attack!” screamed Tolby. “This isn’t how you protect a society—it’s how you attack it while saying you’re protecting it! And like you said, everybody’s in on it, they all stand to prosper from it: The Chinese are in it with the Americans, I can see through that one. The so-called hostility between these powerful nation-states has always been a kabuki—think about the trade, about the manufacturing, about the fake space races and space stations, in which they cover each other's asses—there’s way too much profit to really want to fight each other. The Chinese and Russians and Iranians and Americans and EU are all in on this scam, it’s obvious. China, Russia and Iran never questioned the bogus 9/11 official story or the moon hoax—like you say, all these guys are Masonic-Satanic bed buddies constantly running scams, whispering and stroking each other off as they play another game of 'trick the world.' No, this coronavirus hoax plan was always to crash the economy and let the transglobal elites steal trillions more and crush the medium-sized and little guy. All these big-dog countries play the same game of stealing and continually conning their people with various upheavals and chicanery. Nobody can see it because the media in all these places is always pulling the wool by hyping some fake 'crisis.' The only way they'd stage a 'real' war would be as a cover to re-divvy up spoils and spheres of influence, reduce populations and free up valuable real estate for future exploitation by the connected.”

“Aw yeah, kid,” continued Paul. “And they won’t think twice about shutting down websites, shadow banning or plain censoring anybody who disagrees. They’re already cracking down on anybody who doesn’t sieg heil when they say so, accusing them of ‘endangering public health and security.’ That’s our New World Order in action, baby. They may shut off internet service for whole regions, states or nations that become disagreeable. It’ll be travel bans as far as the eye can see—not just banned international travel, but restrictions on travel between cities and towns in the same country. And bans on guns and maybe even knives. Bans on the hoarding of food and water supplies. The authorities want us to start begging them for the means of survival. And they will be happy to supply us—so long as we go along with the new ways of doing business. We’re talking the establishment of centralized digital currencies and universal basic income. All transactions will be digital—allegedly to eliminate the filth, bacteria and viruses that allegedly ride on cash money, but really to track and control you even more. If they don’t like what you’ve been up to, they’ll cut you right off. No money. No job. No digital food vouchers. No water. No electricity. No internet. No place to live.”

Tolby grimaced, gunned down the last of his beer and reached for another. “Well, they’ve done it. Hell, Paul, they’ve done it! They swooped in and took everything while we were snoozing, thinking everything was going to work out O.K."

"Pretty soon," said Paul, "we'll start hearing about how the lockdown and forced impoverishment of the masses has saved the world from global warming, that nature is growing again, claptrap like that. Some of these global warming zealots have actually announced how much they'd like to kill all the people so that the mosquitoes and grasslands can thrive. Look, I'm not much of a fan of people, but you got to draw a line. Anyway, from here on it may well be full speed ahead to slaughters and culling to achieve the 500 million maximum human population, as spelled out on the Georgia Guidestones. The Guidestones—officially unveiled on March 22, 1980, or 3/22, which not-so-coincidentally invokes those key numbers of 9 and 11, lest you doubt—are gaining more credibility each day this societal breakdown goes on. Mass human elimination may start becoming the reality in years rather than decades."

"Argh!" wailed Tolby. "Stop saying stuff like that! But you're probably right. We lost. They won. We are helpless. All we can do is gnaw on our tails!”

“But that’s not all,” said Paul, “oh no, not all. The culling will probably involve everyone being required to get a quantum dot identification tattoo. This scheme is already well down the proverbial pipeline. Quantum dot semiconducting crystals will be implanted in your flesh by microneedles that will also deposit vaccines containing brain-deadening, illness-creating pathogens. There's speculation they may also include some 'custom DNA' in the evil elixir as part of the plan to 'reinvent the human along more copacetic lines.' Anyway, the tattoo will dissolve into the skin, marking you and making you easily identifiable by all the devices that are part of the prison of digital connectivity that covers the globe like kudzu. Getting this mark will be required if you want to get a job or go to school or get a driver’s license or receive your universal basic income. Down the road, using these ‘dots’ that will become part of your body, they may even be able to electronically zap you from a satellite or radio tower to keep you in line—or, in a worse case, give you a heart attack—just because they feel you are a threat or don’t like you.”

“‘Dots’?” snarled Tolby. “Where did you get this? I haven’t heard about this.”

“Then you haven’t been paying attention,” said Paul, cracking open two more bottles and handing one to Tolby. “Bill ‘The Mad Vaccinator’ Gates has been talking about it nonstop. Not just talking, but making serious plans—forking out serious millions of bucks to get it done. This is Bill Gates, founder of Microsoft, the awful monopoly that hasn’t ever made a software product that works decently. Bill Gates, spokesman for the Satanist pedophile eugenicist overlords. Bill Gates, the second-richest man in the media world, right behind cannibal capitalist, junk salesman and U.S. regime propagandist Jeff Bezos. That’s Bill Gates, whose father was a head of Planned Parenthood, a group that arose from the American eugenics movement of the early 20th century. Bill Gates, the mad vaccinator who allegedly likes to go around Africa and India giving kids dangerous vaccines that cripple and kill the youngsters. That’s Bill 'The Mad World Population Reducer' Gates, backer of GMOs and supporter of pro-Big Business ‘radical changes’ to save the world from so-called ‘global warming.’ That’s Bill Gates—business partner, house guest and holder of frequent private meetings with pedophile secret agent Jeffrey Epstein—yes, that Jeffrey Epstein, whose pedophile-loving friends in high places helped him fake his suicide in federal detention in New York City in August 2019. Bill Gates, who coincidentally announced his retirement from the boards of Microsoft and Berkshire Hathaway in mid-March, just as this hoax was getting rolling. That would be Bill Gates, poster boy of the 'Dark Triad' achievers who keep things moving in a maleficent direction—i.e., those who thrive on unbridled narcissism, Machiavellianism, and psychopathy. Do you see what I'm getting at when I talk about ‘the Satanic pedophile overlords’?”

“You mean the Bill Gates?” said Tolby. “The terrible guy who knows nothing about computer software? Now he’s leading the charge for sketchy, mandatory vaccinations?”

“Yes, him,” said Paul. “Gates, media-savvy henchman for the Satanic pedophile overlords, has been handing out millions to the nerds at MIT and elsewhere to develop these digital ‘ID2020’ tattoos for the branding of naive populations across the globe. This is far from a secret, Tolby—like most things, it’s right out in the open. The 'ID2020 Alliance' brings together usual suspects like the Rockefeller Foundation, Microsoft, Accenture and vaccine makers to promote the false and Orwellian notions that 'The ability to prove who you are is a fundamental and universal human right. Because we live in a digital era, we need a trusted and reliable way to do that both in the physical world and online.' They actually say that we need them—the Rockefellers and Gateses of the world—to 'prove who we are.' Bill Gates has always been upfront about how we need ‘billions of vaccines to protect the world’—now he'd like to protect us by numbering us and entering us into some Database of Total Control. Bill wrote on his blog on March 19, 2020: ‘The question of which businesses should keep going is tricky. Certainly food supply and the health system. We still need water, electricity and the internet. Supply chains for critical things need to be maintained. Countries are still figuring out what to keep running. Eventually we will have some digital certificates to show who has recovered or been tested recently or when we have a vaccine who has received it.’ In a talk on March 24, Bill said, ‘Eventually there will be this digital immunity proof that will help facilitate the global reopening up.’”

“Argh!” screamed Tolby, who then chugged down half a beer. “It’s happening! The Mark of the Beast is being rolled out before our eyes! And we’re helpless against it!”

“And we know this is part of the plan,” continued Paul, “because you could say that this whole coronahoax disaster was officially kicked off by 'Event 201' on October 18, 2019. This was the tabletop ‘pandemic drill’ staged by the Johns Hopkins Center for Health Security in partnership with the World Economic Forum and the Bill and Melinda Gates Foundation. This event modeled a fictional coronavirus pandemic that resulted in the deaths of 65 million people. Note the numbers here: 2 + 1 equals the holy number of 3. Six plus five equals 11, the number of magic—as in 9/11 or 11/22 or many others. 3 x 11 equals 33—Christ’s age at the time of crucifixion and resurrection. Thirty-three degrees: the pinnacle of Scottish Rite Freemasonry. Thirty-three segments in the UN’s ‘flat earth’ logo. Thirty-three windows on the Iranian parliament. And many, many more. That’s 33—the ultimate ‘tell’ of a Satanic pedophile overlord project. Bill Gates, of course, is a huge fan of the number 33. He claimed on CNN that coronavirus spreads by 33 percent per day. In 2018, he claimed 33 million people could be killed in a coronavirus pandemic. And I suppose we should just accept it as a coincidence that the World Health Organization—which is 'privately funded' by Bill Gates and others of the Satanic pedophile ilk, they make no secret of this—declared the coronahoax virus outbreak a pandemic on March 11. Which is 3 x 11, or 33. Or let's go one more: 3 x 11 x 2020 = 66,660. Hmmm, Tolby? Another 'strange coincidence,' eh? Hmmm? Nor shall we forget the March 11, 2004 Madrid 'Islamic terrorist' train bombings that supposedly killed 193, nor the March 11, 2011 Japanese earthquake, tsunami and Fukushima nuclear meltdown. That's an awful lot of suspicious and spooky 3/11s, Hmmm, Tolby?”

Tolby was silent. He glared at Paul and cracked the tops of two more beer bottles.

Tom Hanks offers further confirmation that it’s all a giant psy-op,” continued Paul. “This greedy moppet, as everyone remembers, was among the very first celebrities to announce he had this coronavirus—he and his wife announced they were infected on, you guessed, it March 11—not a joke! And we shall not forget that Tom Hanks is a ringleader of the Hollywood pedo-incest aristocracy. He’s part of the Spielberg-Zemeckis mafia, a moon hoaxer via his role in Apollo 13 and top propagandist via his role in that lousy Spielberg Pentagon Papers movie. Monstrously, Hanks even pimped out his six-year-old daughter in a skit about a young girl beauty pageant on the Jimmy Kimmel Live show. In this skit, Hanks says he’s been working to make his daughter ‘sexy’ since she was three months old. See also Will 'The Unfunny Guy' Ferrell's 'Child Clown Outlet' video, featuring child trafficking and torture and other nasty stuff, for another example of famous folks who think child abuse is funny and should be shown on TV.”

“What?” screamed Tolby.

Paul shook his head mournfully. “You got to watch it, Tolby, if you’re up for something truly disgusting. Hanks also starred in the 2016 movie Inferno, an atrocious Dan Brown movie about an heroic Harvard professor who links up with the World Health Organization to save the globe from a virus apocalypse—not a joke! Anyway, after the initial announcement that he had coronavirus, Tom did a follow-up post on Instagram in which he claimed he traveled to Australia to film a movie about Elvis Presley with an old L.C. Smith CORONA brand typewriter in his luggage. He even posted a picture of the machine. Tom Hanks, Corona typewriter collector and maniac—what are the odds of that, Tolby? Hanks is just a strange dude, eh? In that same post, Hanks also claimed he was losing to his wife by 201 points in a gin rummy series. Hmm, where have we seen 201 before? Oh, that’s right—in Bill Gates’ 'Event 201' simulation. Just a coincidence, eh, Tolby? What are the odds? Good? Bad? Or was Tommy-boy sending a message, an announcement, to those that are paying attention? Believe in ol’ pedo guy Tom Hanks’ innocence, do ya, Tolby?”

“What?” screamed Tolby. “I’ve always hated Tom Hanks and everything he’s stood for!”

“Well,” said Paul, “in any case, the hoax will likely be declared over by the key occult date of April 30—but the misery will continue, of that we can be sure. Because the point was never to fight a virus, it was to wreck the economy, give trillions to the oligarchs, eviscerate the middle class, intensify the impoverishment of the average global citizen, and fundamentally reset relations between the rulers and the ruled, including normalizing new restrictions on movement, invasive new checks on your health, and increased surveillance in general. And they have succeeded. The authorities are already dialing back their estimates, and Mockingbird organ The New York Times, citing the ever-reliable anonymous sources, has started to pump up the fictional COVID-19 fatalities since they won’t get real ones. Expect the U.S.A. to start running crazy with false numbers and faked pictures and video to keep this con going for another few weeks. But then they’ll probably start winding it down, like they have elsewhere, now that the damage has been done.”

“Aw hell!” snarled Tolby.

“If you remember, Anthony Fauci, the top U.S. disease doctor, whipped the fear into high gear in mid-March when he screamed that ‘MILLIONS COULD DIE.’ This coincided with the widely reported coronahoax virus death rate of '3.4 percent'—a number that was, obviously, amazingly high and false, considering that the rate, if you believe in this thing at all, is now well below 0.5 percent, even according to the manipulated statistics. But lying from the start was part of this hoax—and the fake threat of 'millions dying from this thing that kills 3.4 percent of people who get it' was banged into Western consciousness by media who had clearly been tasked by their intel agency controllers with 'whipping up fear and panic by spreading false information.' Then, after that had the desired effect of putting millions under house arrest and crashing the economy, Fauci coauthored a March 26 article in The New England Journal of Medicine in which he and his colleagues wrote, ‘If one assumes that the number of asymptomatic or minimally symptomatic cases is several times as high as the number of reported cases, the case fatality rate may be considerably less than 1%. This suggests that the overall clinical consequences of Covid-19 may ultimately be more akin to those of a severe seasonal influenza (which has a case fatality rate of approximately 0.1%) or a pandemic influenza (similar to those in 1957 and 1968).’ So there you have it: Anthony “AIEEEEE MILLIONS MAY DIE!” Fauci is now down to ‘severe seasonal influenza.’ By the end of March, Dr. Fauci had gone from ‘millions could die’ to, er, well, maybe between 100,000–240,000? Seriously." (ED NOTE: By the second week of April 2020, Fauci had lowered his estimate into the 60,000 dead range, putting this 'pandemic' into the zone of a normal cold/flu season in the U.S.)

"Argh, you can already see where this is going," said Tolby. "They'll just say that their dictatorial methods saved everyone's life! They'll prance around declaring how great and smart they are. But it's bollocks! All they've done is wrapped their tentacles around our throats even tighter! Argh!"

"Exactly," said Paul. "And the U.S. backdown aligns with the U.K.’s current estimate that something around 20,000 will die from coronavirus in that country—down from the 500,000 first estimated by Imperial College hack scientist Neil Ferguson. And in case you're wondering, Imperial College and Ferguson's department have received tens of millions of bucks from Gates' foundation—not a joke! And it's very much in the public record, these donations from Gates and Big Pharma players. It's not just coronahoax—these 'scientists for hire' at Imperial College have gotten it wrong on mad cow disease, swine flu and H5N1 bird flu—and somehow, they still get taken seriously by newspapers like 'The Guardian,' which also receives millions in 'donations' from the likes of Bill Gates—not a joke! But anyway, the U.K. no longer even lists corona as a serious threat! This is what it says on gov.uk: ‘As of 19 March 2020, COVID-19 is no longer considered to be a high consequence infectious diseases (HCID) in the UK.’ Yet that hasn’t stopped the Brits from threatening people and cracking down and police-stating with the best. Because the whole point of this ruse is to bring in the police state and prepare everyone for the cashless society and getting the vaccine that will also serve as your identification number. As for China, Italy, Iran, Spain, the other so-called hotspots—these are all unhealthy, corrupt, high-pollution areas where the overlords and their henchmen have easily been able to pump up normal levels of morbidity and claim it’s coronahoax virus. They don’t tell you, for example, that northern Italy has both the worst air pollution and the oldest population in Europe. And that around 20,000 people, give or take a few thousand, die in the typical Italian flu season. And that thousands keel over annually from the bad air. And that over the years they have simply bombarded these oldsters with medications and vaccines and then they attach them to ventilators, the machines that help kill them. In the Lombardy region, they’ve hit old folks in the last couple years with both flu and meningitis vaccinations campaigns—nothing to do with anything, right? No, what we got is called a propaganda hoax. ‘What?’ people say. ‘They’re making it all up?’ Well, it’s a mix of making stuff up and misrepresenting facts and other data. How did the U.K. hack scientist come up with 500,000? Thin air, perhaps? Italy has admitted it has listed non-corona deaths as being corona deaths."

“Damn it, Paul,” said Tolby. “Damn it, I feel like an idiot. We’ve been taken for a ride. Everyone I know has gobbled up this insanity. We’ve been played for fools. We’ve been robbed blind in the bright daylight.”

“Yes, we have,” said Paul. “They’ve shut down the poetry clubs and concert venues. They’ve shut down the churches, mosques, temples. They've shut down the cafes, bars and brothels. They’ve cancelled political meetings. They are talking about electronic voting, saying they’ll take ‘measures’ to ensure the vote can’t get hacked. Yes, of course—your vote will be totally safe from prying eyes! In some places, they’re letting the prisoners out of jail even as they imprison the innocent in their own homes. They’ve closed the gyms and sports fields but let the fast-food joints stay open—now that’s really looking out for your health, eh? Worse, they’ve destroyed the academic and sports dreams of millions of boys and girls by cancelling schools and sports leagues.”

“Was it not Mark Twain,” said Tolby, “who said, ‘It’s easier to trick a man than to convince him he’s been fooled’? And what have the propaganda masters known since forever: Repeat the Big Lie long enough and loud enough and the masses will believe it—evidence and common sense be damned!”

“Yes,” said Paul, “the great mass of ordinary people seems unable to meaningfully process the avalanche of information that slams into their face every day. This, of course, is by the design of the agents who run the smartphone apps and the media. The ordinary person’s mind has been so weakened and warped by propaganda, performance-inhibiting food and drugs, the idiot culture, that the sheeple do not know whether to be fearful or angry or happy unless they are instructed to do so by a sheeple-herder. Their obedience and compliance has been carefully engineered since 9/11—you are hereby ordered to take your shoes off and dump your water bottles, otherwise you cannot board this airplane!—and now they are guaranteed to do exactly as they are instructed. More than that, it’s well established that fear weakens the immune system. Whipping up fear by telling people there’s a lethal virus out there makes people create illness themselves via their panic and fear. Fear has been shown to shut down rational thought, replacing it with ‘fight or flight’ ways of reacting. This is very well understood by the hoaxers and manipulators, they’ve been studying it for generations by now. But trying to get ordinary joes to discuss this stuff is like asking about WTC 7, or asking why there’s no video of what hit the Pentagon, or any of the hundreds of other 9/11 questions. No one wants to hear it—although salvation exactly lies in getting to the bottom of it. Now, the world has suddenly been reduced to just three groups of people: the hidden hands and actors carrying out the hoax; the curious and courageous few who’ve figured out the hoax; and the 98 percent, the huge blubbering mass who are cowering and believing it’s real. They seem unable to do anything but repeat what they’ve heard on TV! Dear lord, what they’ve done with this corona con is cheap stuff! It’s cheaper than ‘The dirty Iraqi rapists threw the Kuwaiti babies out of the incubators’ kind of stuff. But no one seems to get it. Hell if I know precisely how they pull off these magick tricks—but they do, over and over. Secret societies and their intel agency and corporate allies are behind these operations. They’re ‘secret’ by definition—but they always provide clues, both to psychologically prepare populations for what’s coming and as a kind of perverse ‘fair play’ in which they try to absolve themselves of culpability by saying, ‘Well, we told you but you didn’t do anything about it.’ Our job is to cut through the programming and propaganda and deploy the philosophy of Sherlock Holmes: ‘When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.’ So that’s what we got here: A massive trauma-based psy-op and naked grab for total control by our Satanic pedophile overlords. Frankly, Tolby, we’re toast. The Endgame arriveth!”

“I guess all we can do is drink these beers—while we still can,” said Tolby, sighing. “Coming across town to your place, even with a mask on, and drinking these pivs is now officially against the Czech rules. They say it's just not 'essential,' that by traveling about and breathing in public we are threatening the survival of civilization and our own well-being."

"They lie," said Paul. "Just more of their craven lies."

Tolby laughed. He and Paul clinked bottles.

"Well, I’m very disappointed, Paul, probably more than you are. Argh—this End of the World thing was supposed to be a true spectacular, a darn-tootin’ hootie! We were supposed to get some hellacious virus from Hades itself, designed by a team of Frankenstein clones and the Oompa-Loompas in an underground U.S. military base hidden deep in the bowels of Raven Rock and Area 51. Something that would kill off 99 percent of people—unless you got the top-secret immunity potion from the half-alien albino lizard mind-control rulers behind the curtain. Exploding heads. Demonic reptiles exploding out of chests. Bodies piling up in streets full of blood running like rivers. Army soldiers in neon-green spacesuits marching folks into the detention camps for forced vaccinations, chipping and castrations. Executions on live TV of the ‘non-cooperative.’ Meanwhile, in between news bulletins saying, ‘Everything’s fine, please continue going to work and shopping,’ the TV broadcasts would be showing nonstop transgender beauty pageants and global warming scare stories about the extinction of polar bear cubs. Then, in the cliffhanger finale, a Russian army that’s been given the antidote invades while we drown in blood, choking on our own entrails. But then the Russkies, too, are wiped out by a suddenly appearing asteroid storm that turns the earth into a flaming ocean of molten rock. The only victors are gigantic radioactive spiders who start rebuilding civilization by hunting down and impregnating the few surviving human females. Argh, Paul—would only that the reality be not so transparently fraudulent and banal!”


Thor Garcia

TUND Short Stories by Thor Garcia by Thor Garcia

The News Clown A Novel by Thor Garcia by Thor Garcia

The Apocalypse of St. Cleo by Thor Garcia

Only Fools Die of Heartbreak Stories by Thor Garcia by Thor Garcia
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Published on April 06, 2020 07:25 Tags: dystopia, endgame, only-fools-die-of-heartbreak, pandemic, the-news-clown, thor-garcia, tund

February 4, 2020

WHORES! WHORES! WHORES!: Of Men with Vaginas and Other Dirty Rats!

“The first time I saw him fully naked, I thought he was deformed and intersex,” she said, as Weinstein put his head into his hand. “He has extreme scarring that I didn’t know if he was a burn victim but it didn’t make sense. He does not have testicles and it appears that he has a vagina.”

Mann said she tried to end the relationship after multiple uncomfortable encounters—including one situation where Weinstein “said ‘Do you like my big, fat, Jewish dick?’”—but admitted she stayed in contact with him out of fear for her family and the future of her career.

. . . . Weinstein’s defense attorney, Damon Cheronis, is expected to question Mann about the hundreds of “loving” emails and notes she wrote to him over the years. Cheronis said Mann referred to Weinstein as her “casual boyfriend” in one note to herself and often asked the movie mogul to meet up.

“Thank you for your unfailing support and kindness,” she wrote in one message.

—as reported on thedailybeast.com, Jan. 31, 2020


PRAGUE (CNS)—Vendulka and I were on the metro one morning, somewhere around Budějovická, when she saw her friend.

“Oh look, it’s Markéta!”

“Who? Where?”

“The one with the rat on her shoulder.”

I glanced down the car. Yes, remarkably, a giant rat was sitting on this girl’s shoulder. It was at least six inches long. And incredibly, the girl was kissing this rat.

Not just little kisses on its whiskers, like many girls might do, but actual tongue kisses.

Can you tongue-kiss a rat? The answer, apparently, is yes.

Markéta was leaning over and sticking her tongue into the rat’s mouth. The filthy creature opened his snout to accept the tip of her tongue. It even seemed to suck on it a bit.

The tender gesture completed, both rat and girl turned to focus on the contents of the screen of the mobile phone she held in her palm. The rat, for all his filthiness, seemed to be a decently behaved little rodent, I had to admit.

I had never met Markéta or the rat. It was all new to me. Vendulka suggested we go over to say hello.

I shook hands with Markéta, and Vendulka and I each petted the top of the rat’s head. To my chagrin, Vendulka even picked up the rat, whispered something into its ear, and gave him a kiss on his whiskered cheek.

What a lucky rodent!

Markéta said the rat’s name was Matěj. Rather humorously, she added that he was originally from eastern Slovakia but had been living with her in Prague for some years now.

According to Markéta, Matěj felt Prague was more culturally vibrant than Slovakia, especially eastern Slovakia, which was uncomfortably close to the backwards nation of Ukraine (that interminably tortured land of the willowy, sad-eyed women of the lowlands and the red-faced-drinkin’-since-the-mornin’-so-can’t-be-bothered-to-shave men).

Well, who was to blame this rat? I’d want out of there, too. But yes, it was curious. Those who know me know I have long been opposed to the practice of young, single women living with non-human animals of any kind. It is inappropriate, to begin with, and probably against nature. It is also an obstacle to the further progress of civilization. It is always a matter of grave concern to see a young single woman living with an animal companion.

A pretty, seemingly nice young woman like Markéta, I felt, should be having a vibrant, sexually fulfilling relationship with a robust and decent fellow who could offer her entertaining days and nights and the possibility of a significant future. The fellow, furthermore, should not be an insufferable bore or a stifling, asinine burden who insisted on filling each second and millimeter of the void with his insufficient brand of b.s., like so many men these days.

After we said farewell to Markéta, Vendulka informed me that Matěj the rat was actually Markéta’s former fiancé.

Markéta, it seemed, had caught Matěj (when he was still a man) reading her phone messages. She’d awoken in the middle of the night to find him drunk and sobbing and clicking through her phone. Matěj later admitted to also getting a computer geek pal to hack into her email and MyFace.com accounts.

He’d read everything. Matěj apparently suspected Markéta of “cheating” on him with another man!

Obviously, this was the last straw. Markéta had no choice but to cancel the wedding. And Vendulka was invited to take part in the ceremony in which Matěj was transformed into a rat.

Markéta sent him to the pub across the street whilst she and her friends performed the ceremony. It had apparently involved the consumption of copious quantities of red wine and the inspection of travel brochures to tropical destinations. I didn’t inquire about any more of the dirty details—the witchcraft that women could get up to had always made me nervous.

In any case, as the ritual drew to a close, one of Markéta’s friends was dispatched to the pub. Oh wow, what a nice surprise to see you here, Matěj! What’s new, what have you been up to, sweetheart?

When he suddenly appeared on the bench as a six-inch long rat, the friend scooped him into her bag and returned to the party. Markéta had a cage already prepared for him.

Matěj’s sudden disappearance, of course, had caused alarm and his family had filed a missing person’s report with the police. Markéta had plans to perform another ceremony to return Matěj to human form—but only after she was certain he had learned his lesson: Do not read your girlfriend’ emails, chats or other private communications!

“Fantastic,” I said. “Well, this definitely rings a bell. I don’t think I know of a Czech or Slovak man who hasn’t hacked into his wife or girlfriend’s email. At the same time, I don’t think I know a Czech or Slovak woman who hasn’t cheated on her boyfriend or husband. It’s weird how it all works.”

Vendulka had to concur. Petr, for example, her boyfriend of two boyfriends ago, had purloined her phone to discover the truth about her cheating. And at least three of Vendulka’s friends (including Markéta) had fallen victim to the electronic snooping of a jealous boyfriend/husband.

Hell, two of my ex-wife’s boyfriends had done it to my ex—and she was still with the last one. And two other Czech women had told me it happened to them. They dumped those guys.

“But turning a guy into an actual rat. . . .” I said, shaking my head. “That’s a pretty big step, Vendulka.”

“Listen, darling,” I said, taking her hand, “I don’t want to know anything about your emails. What good does it do? The fact is, humans have always used deception. And everyone has a right to their secrets. And women, especially beautiful confident Czech women, are always right in what they do. You’ll get no argument about that from me. I don’t want to control you or interfere in your business. Hell no! The only thing I want is to be able to look into your eyes and hear the music of your voice.”

Tears appeared in Vendulka’s eyes. It was magical—in the wetness of her cheek, I discerned the reflection of the café’s ancient chandelier.

“Let’s get out of here,” she said. “Take me home so we can talk without distraction.”

Perhaps the future involved picking through radioactive rubble and maneuvering through the minefields of some newfangled feudal lord. But probably not. I refused to be pessimistic. Pessimism was a gimmick for the immature and self-defeated.

Things were actually looking pretty good for the human being. We simply needed to focus more on having a laugh and exploding the propaganda that was driving everyone mad. We needed to concentrate on getting things done for ourselves and our friends and loved ones. Everything would work out.

The slave masters could take a hike—it was time to stop letting them push us around. It was time to stop living for them.

Feeling tired and sick?
No worries, ya doing just fine.
We can sell a piece a ya ass to somebody.
There’s all kinds of freaks out there. We’ll find a taker, no worries!
Just implant this app on ya brain. We’ll do the rest of the work for ya.
No worries—confusion looks good on ya, baby!
Are ya staying well lubed?
Wanna buy a Slut Simulator?
Hey there, Gamer, ya can call me Sweet Lisa.
We’ve got man, woman and child models.
It’s almost free and so real ya’ll think
it’s ‘almost real!’
Voted Best Game of the Year by the International Man-Boy Gamers Association.
Do ya like women, men, couples
and trans?
They sure do like ya. At least they’ve got nothing against ya right now.
Wanna play a game where ya can simultaneously jerk off and shoot guys while being the real Hand Solo, not pretend?
Buy these goggles, they’re almost free.
The New Greatest Depression is close. Think 1928. They banned booze!
In any case, I guess I’ll see ya in Hell.
That’s right—the End is Near. We heard it on the news.
Aw yeah, that’s what it said on the screen: TUNE IN NOW
TO HELP US KEEP FEAR ALIVE.
Go on, ya can do it! Stop complaining and just do it!
Ya know the drill: Repeat the stuff we say on the news endlessly, yet constantly claim the “mainstream media is dying." Didn't ya read it on the internets?
That’s how we run things around here.
If ya doubt what we say or try to cross us
We’ll erase ya right off the face of the earth, kid
No trace of ya left behind.
Anybody says different, we’ll just drown ‘em out with rah-rah-rahs and a blur of dildos.
Bet ya life we don’t need religion. That’s for dopes.
God hasn’t been future-ready for at least a generation
—No, He hasn’t done shit for ya lately.
He didn’t competitively differentiate to compete with Slut Stimulators.
We’ve thought so for years.
We're the new religion. We’ve done so much to improve ya daily life
—and now we prefer to clog ya pineal gland so ya can’t support higher consciousness.
And we are winning! That’s called a Big Win-Win-Win—for us.
Ya got to believe what we say and mouth it too
Otherwise we’ll call ya crazy and shadow ban ya from all the platforms
We’ll censor ya and ban ya without thinking twice
We’ll ban and censor ya until all ya wrongthought is extinguished
We’re Big Business and hell yeah oh yeah
we get to do whatever we want
Like ban ya and not pay taxes—cuz funding the bloated military and corrupt government that don't even work right, that’s
ya job, little man!
We just take the cream off all the benefits
Ya only option is to repeat what we say
Because the more ya options narrow
The more we win.
And we convinced ya to “like” it—ain’t we awesome?
Come on! Ya know ya “like” it, even though ya say, in a superior air, that ya “disdain such metrics”!
But ya do “like” it, don’t ya?
Like all those hip new TV shows ya can’t stop watching
while claiming ya on to our tricks
and don’t believe a word we say.
No worries, ya doing fine
just like ya been instructed
Who cares what ya blabber to ya-self in private
Ya don’t even take the time to think it through
Let alone anybody else
Now Global Warming is our common enemy, isn’t that right?
Isn’t that something we can all agree on?
Don’t ya want to save the world?
What about the fires? What about the fish? What about Trump?
What about the Japs? What about the angry Swedish teens?
Come on, ya know ya gotta “like” that! It’s all legit! Too legit to quit!
If ya disagree, we’ll call ya crazy and track ya phone! We’ll put ya face in our database of definite twerps and possible perps!
Hell, we’re already doing it!


I must confess—that Weinstein news bulletin—which I have read over and over in the past few days—has shaken me to the core. I had meant to do so much more with my time but . . . sometimes life just intervenes?

I have always attempted to remain aloof from the Weinstein #metoo drama, now in its third year. Since the early 1990s, when I first heard about this sad clown, I’d regarded Harvey as an idiotic, unlikable man who made idiotic, unlikable movies. And one’s sympathy, of course, was severely limited for anybody who voluntarily joined Harvey’s orbit in hopes of achieving fame and fortune by wearing skintight outfits in idiotic, unlikable movies.

Ya stick out ya booty, repeatedly offering it to scorpions—and ya surprised when it gets stung? Ya wish to join the League of Scum—then bitch when ya get slimed? Ya suggest ya suck the jizz from an elderly obese mogul in exchange for a part in a lousy Hollywood movie—then call the cops because the dude smells funny? Ya hang out for years in the community of buggering, murdering, sodomist Luciferians who are world champs at manipulation—and then complain when they get buggering and manipulative and sodomist and Luciferian on ya? Opening ya legs opens doors and it's all so much fun—until one lousy night when ya realize he's a hideous Entelodon who's got a vagina but no balls? Eh?

Where o where are the heroes who'll call time on the real sexual exploitation of working-class women in factories and offices across these glorious lands? Where o where are the heroes willing to get their hands dirty and put a farking stop to the rape, mutilation and murder of maquiladora women in Ciudad Juárez?

On top of that, there was always the suspicion the official intel agency outlets, e.g., The New York Times and The New Yorker and the rest of them, were staffed with State Department officials who were force-feeding us some kind of Weinstein horror story for social engineering purposes—i.e., the Big Let’s Split the Sexes Further, Make the Guys & Gals Hate Each Other & Push the Homo-Gay Lifestyle & Transsexualism to the Masses Psy-Op, which has been going on for decades. If you poked it even a little, #metoo usually revealed itself to be just a newfangled reactionary, right-wing, identity-politics (i.e., Nazi) movement, dressed up in a falsely "feminist" tutu, that portrayed women as soft, overly sensitive creatures who couldn't hack the real rough-and-tumble of sex and power. Yes, a totally petit-bourgeoisie neurotic angry white-girl type of thing, part of the gender and racialist push of the shady men in the shadows who were always pushing their shadowy "cultural engineering" manipulations in the interests of the capitalist-fascist pigs. . . .

Well, but then. . . .

“The first time I saw him fully naked, I thought he was deformed and intersex,” she said, as Weinstein put his head into his hand. “He has extreme scarring that I didn’t know if he was a burn victim but it didn’t make sense. He does not have testicles and it appears that he has a vagina.”

—as reported on thedailybeast.com, Jan. 31, 2020

Well, I guess we already assumed, as “Jessica Mann” related in her courtroom testimony, that Weinstein “smelled like poop.” I mean, what else would he smell like? And we assumed he would like to pee on people and persuade them into doing “threesomes.” And we somehow just assumed that his penis no longer worked in a sexual way (if it ever had), and that he would be injecting said penis with coke and other stimulants in attempts to make it function. And yes, we already assumed he was the type who would go around spluttering about his “big, fat, Jewish dick” that didn’t work. I mean, what else would he tell those poor, grasping women like “Jessica Mann” who were ready to do anything to be movie stars, including hanging out—for years—with a poopy Jewish supremacist bozo named Harvey?

But now—now that they have decided to release the bombshell that Weinstein, in fact, has a vagina. . . .

To confirm the news, I emerged from my shock long enough to make calls over the weekend to my sources at Sony Filmed Entertainment Pictures and the Los Angeles Times. What follows is a summary of what they told me:

Yes indeed: It seems Weinstein had his testicles chopped and a vagina installed shortly after he became engaged to Quentin Tarantino. This was in that giddy period of the early 1990s following the release of Reservoir Dogs, when the intelligence agencies had decided to enlist Tarantino as a tool/conduit to simultaneously push cultural chaos and cultural conformism in a "trendy nonconformist conformist" wrapper, and everything seemed possible.

Tarantino, off his rocker on cough syrup and high on the delusion he was a film superstar, was going through one of his “I’m really not gay, no, really, really!” phases. He promised to marry Weinstein if Harvey cut off his balls and got a vagina, which Quentin had heard was becoming increasingly popular among certain influential social circles. Weinstein was initially skeptical but was won over after Tarantino showed him Cronenberg’s Videodrome, one of Quentin’s favorite movies, which features James Woods storing a handgun in a vagina that has grown in his abdomen.

“Harvey wanted the surgery but didn’t know who to call,” said my Sony source, who works in the executive bungalows at the corporation’s Culver City headquarters. “He ended up calling his good friend Hillary Clinton, who told him that the Clintons’ good friend Jeffery Epstein had contacts in the medical world who would do it. Epstein, in fact, had already had a vagina installed in his own groin area, styled after one of his most beloved Victoria’s Secret models. And this idea, in particular, really captured Harvey—but, Harvey being Harvey, he couldn’t decide whether he wanted a replica of Sharon Stone’s vagina or Demi Moore’s. It was maddening—Harvey apparently watched all of the movies of both actresses dozens of times in an attempt to choose. But then, after a few months of indecision, Harvey blew everybody’s mind by declaring he wanted a replica of Jodie Foster’s vagina. Yes, yes. Jodie was initially resistant, as one might imagine, but Harvey was persistent, he spent weeks cajoling her and sending her roses. And Jodie eventually agreed to do the 3D sitting for $14 million. So that’s how Harvey got it done: A testicular clip and Jodie Foster’s vagina installed in a series of surgeries in Chandler, Arizona over two weeks. The docs wanted to do plastic surgery to get rid of the scarring, but Weinstein and Tarantino didn’t want to wait that long, they wanted to use Jodie Foster’s vagina right away. So the scar tissue stayed.”

“Quentin was quite happy with how Harvey wore Jodie’s vagina,” confirmed my friend at the L.A. Times, who has covered Hollywood as well as the San Fernando Valley porn mecca and broadband industries over several decades with the paper. “And Harvey, being the hard-driving businessman that he is, wasn’t going to let the opportunity go to waste. He decided to use his newfound ‘sexy leverage’ to push Tarantino into putting a male-on-male anal sex scene in Pulp Fiction, which they were working on full-time at this point."

"Harvey thought Quentin’s original script for Pulp Fiction was lousy and had thus become convinced that male-on-male sodomy was the only way the film would become a big hit. And, because he is a racialist of the highest order, Harvey insisted that a big black man be anally raped in the film, for the fun of it and because it was 'justice' and 'Hollywood owes the Negro male quite a great deal for all his work over the decades.' Tarantino, of course, was happy to oblige, because he loves seeing big black men anal-raped even more than Harvey, if that’s possible. So they ended up filming Ving Rhames, who plays the ‘elite ghetto crook' Marsellus Wallace, outfitted with a ball-gag and getting raped by white men, including one who's a security guard. It was a dream come true, for Harvey and Quentin at least—they thought it was ‘great fun’ and ‘super funny’ and showed the outtakes for several months to anybody who would watch. I even heard Harvey tried to get Quentin to make at least one of the rapists a hairy rabbi with a gigantic shnozz and an even bigger salami—but Quentin put his foot down, saying that would be going too far, that Middle America would be against the 'sinfulness' of it.”

(In a 2014 interview with Rolling Stone, Tarantino gave this idiotic and nonsensical explanation for making the rape of a big black man a centerpiece of Pulp Fiction: “Part of the fun of Pulp, is that if you’re hip to movies, you’re watching the boxing movie Body and Soul and then suddenly the characters turn a corner and they’re in the middle of Deliverance. And you’re like, ‘What? How did I get into Deliverance? I was in Body and Soul, what’s going on here?”)

The sources said Weinstein and Tarantino got married in a sun-splashed ceremony at the Cotton House and Beach Café on Mustique. This was in the afterglow of the success of Pulp Fiction, which—although it is a lousy, painful-to-watch movie—became a huge worldwide success thanks to it being pushed by the intel agencies in every media venue they controlled (i.e., all of the big ones). The spooks were thrilled by the movie's discordian outlook, hyperviolence, race-baiting, throwbackism and trendy nonconformist conformism—and they wanted these themes implanted in the brains of the world's youth in order to weaken and better control them.

The wedding was a grand affair attended by Tommy Hilfinger, Nick Nolte, John Malkovich, Jennifer Connelly, Chazz Palminteri, Michael Madsen, Chris Penn, Melanie Griffith, Andrew McCarthy, Queen Elizabeth II, Jarvis Cocker, Tim Burton, David Bowie, Denzel Washington, Damon Albarn, Tom Ford, George Wendt, Roman Polanski, then-CIA Director John Deutch, J.T. LeRoy, J.K. Rowling, Tommy Lee and Pamela Anderson, Tommy Lee Jones, Spike Lee, Lee Tamahori, Director of U.S. National Drug Control Policy Lee P. Brown, Governor Jerry Brown, Mayor Willie Brown, Jim Brown, Candice Bergen, Erik Estrada, Sammy Davis, Jr., Donald Trump, Simon Le Bon, Barry Bonds, Kate Moss, Balthazar Getty, Kevin Spacey, Saul Hudson, Nicolas Cage, Beck Hansen, Gianni Versace, Drew Barrymore, Brian Wilson, Jeffrey Epstein and Les Wexner, Dave Grohl, Cindy Lauper, John Travolta, James Frey, Glenn Frey, Amber Frey and Scott Peterson, Courtney Love, John Cusack, Lou Reed, Juliette Lewis and Meg Ryan and Dennis Quaid.

Eventually, of course, as the glow of Pulp Fiction wore off, people started to ask why Tarantino never put even a minimally developed female character in his films. Everything was just sweaty guys pulling guns and raping each other. Tarantino spent the next couple of years trying to develop a female character, but he kept giving his leading ladies gigantic penises and writing scenes in which they raped Danny Trejo and Jay-Z and Antonio Banderas and Wesley Snipes and other men from minority communities, telling everyone this was “cool, real cool, listen to me, man!” Or giving the ladies a huge gun or sword to wave around and kill people. Quentin’s stories never went much beyond this level of development, so Harvey was forced to fork out a couple million for Rum Punch, a lousy Elmore Leonard novel that was later released (after heavy editing) as Jackie Brown, a lousy movie in which Tarantino is credited as director.

“Over the next decade, Quentin and Harvey became increasingly alienated,” my Sony Pictures source explained. “It happens to a lot of married people: You fall out of love due to busy schedules and whatnot. Harvey tried to win back Quentin’s love by inviting Leonardo DiCaprio and Brad Pitt over to try out his Jodie Foster vagina, but this only made things worse. Quentin fell in love with Leo and Brad and started making movies with them, often cruelly leaving Harvey out of the story meetings. Quentin, of course, tried to please both Brad Pitt and Harvey with his ultimate in ‘big fat Jewish dicks’ movie, Inglourious Basterds, the lousy film in which Brad Pitt hangs out with a lot of sweaty Jewish guys before murdering Hitler. It's really a rather sad, lonely and ugly film that portrays a frustrated and ultimately defeated libido. This, of course, was part of Hollywood’s long-running ‘Re-Normalization of the Nazis’ project, aimed at winning public sympathy for Nazi tactics, which continues to this day.”

“The final fallout occurred,” said my L.A. Times source, “when Tarantino was selected by the CIA to do a film for the ‘Re-Promotion of Black Slavery Campaign,’ the ongoing project in which every other film made by Hollywood that’s got black people has got to be about slavery and the torture of black Americans (with the other ‘black films' alternating between gang melodramas and portrayals of black people as loyal, Velveeta-eating Americans who are astronauts, athletes or garbage men). Anyway, Harvey completely lost all his marbles when Quentin told him that the CIA studio execs had ruled out any anal rape of black men in Django Unchained. I mean, black male anal rape in a movie about slavery would’ve been too too much, even in a lousy exploitative Tarantino film.”

“Well,” continued the source, “so Harvey was eventually escorted off the studio lot, crying and screaming that he wanted to see Leo DiCaprio slamming the salami up Samuel L. Jackson's tailpipe. He was purportedly screaming at Tarantino, ‘But you said Leo would do Sammy! You said Leo would do Sammy!’ It was not a good look, and even Tarantino was embarrassed. Anyway, when the new head of the CIA’s Hollywood Directorate—an Obama appointee who happens to be a practicing Luciferian Mormon, with all that entails—heard about this debacle and asked his assistants about it, they told him that Weinstein also had Jodie Foster’s vagina implanted. And they said Weinstein had already approved Tarantino's new script, which involved DiCaprio and Pitt anally raping Charles Manson and conducting a Black Dahlia-style bisection of Sharon Tate during a blood-fueled orgy finale at All Star Lanes Bowl in Eagle Rock. Right, that script was immediately sent to Rewrite, which eventually came up with the version that Tarantino filmed. This was the lousy 2019 movie Once Upon a Time in Hollywood, which, to its small credit, shows the truth that nobody, not Sharon Tate or anybody, actually died in the Manson Hoax. . . . Anyway, and it was decided then and there that Harvey was to be unveiled as the new face of the #metoo split-the-sexes project—and that the reality of his vagina would be revealed at the most opportune moment. A squad of U.S. Marines was called in to extract Harvey from Beverly Hills, and he was drugged and taken to the secret CIA testing/training campus in Westchester County to be prepped for his new role. Another team, meanwhile, got to work creating this ‘Jessica Mann’ figure from whole cloth, already knowing the key role he would play. It’s probably obvious to you that Jessica is really a man—I mean, dear lord, they’re openly calling 'her' one! The whole thing is a triple- or even a quadruple-level joke for the insiders.”

“Part of the brilliance of the project,” added my Sony Pictures source, “is that you now have the face of #metoo, Weinstein, this allegedly aggressive male heterosexual predator with the face of a lizard, being announced as having a vagina. Isn’t it delicious? That’s a cognitive dissonance exemplar to die for—and hilarious, just hilarious. The hoi polloi won’t know what to think—except that men are disgusting and that women who hang around with them to become movie stars are weird, sicko airheads. And, apparently, this is exactly the goal of the psy-op: Disgust and confuse everybody. Attempt to criminalize the behavior that occurs within complicated interpersonal relationships. Tell women that even as they are willingly engaging in a relationship, they may actually be getting assaulted—and they can decide this question years later, depending on if they feel they profited from the relationship. The intel agents-in-charge feel they are being very successful. They are planning on receiving big bonuses.”

The good thing is, we are here to help
Ya need not be a whore and a sellout
Those are ya words, not ours
Communication is the key to everything
Ya say ya don’t have the energy
And there’s lots of laundry to do?
It’s an interesting data point, that’s for sure.
But communication is the key to happiness.
When will ya be ready to have intercourse again?
Place a small amount of arousal cream on
Ya genital area
It will cause the blood to rush to that area
Don’t forget ya gentle water-based lubricant!
Focus on communication, hugging and massage
Feelings of guilt, shame and despair are difficult to dispel
But not insurmountable
Explore using an all-natural creamer
Colorless, odorless and tasteless
Ya may not need anything more.
Are ya taking enough fish oil? Eating too much junk food?
What’s ya alcohol intake?
Will ya be using ya toy in the bathtub or shower?
Remember, it’s like buying a new phone
The more options and sheen ya want
The more it'll cost ya
Take a moment to think about where ya’ll keep ya toy


Thor Garcia

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Published on February 04, 2020 08:13 Tags: men, only-fools-die-of-heartbreak, rats, the-news-clown, thor-garcia, tund, vagina, whores

DEATH SEX WAR GOD

Thor Garcia
Reporting on the news with Thor Garcia, journalist and author of THE NEWS CLOWN, ONLY FOOLS DIE OF HEARTBREAK, and TUND.
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