Wednesday, August 03, 2011

I Am A Disinformation Agent.

A cautionary tale, by Rusty Shackleford.

"May you live in interesting times." -Ancient Chinese Curse.

My editor has asked me to write a piece for Modern Mythology this evening. That is fine, but making this fit into the format of the site is his dirty job. I should mention that I think JC is a professional social deviant with a sadistic sense of humor, he is SCUM, a complete freak of a man, and this is why I like him so much.

Classic example: it was only after I informed him that I have been smoking black tar opium all day long and eating Kratom, popping Rozarem to help "bring me down" (?!!) that he insisted I run a piece. Insisted.

“And it has to be this evening,” he said. “Don’t worry. You won’t remember it tomorrow.”

I think this is his idea of a joke.

I have known him for nearly a decade now and he just told me this evening that "You've become the Diety representing intoxication in my personal pantheon. You should feel proud."

I do. Either proud, or very, very scared.

So I am going to fill you in on an important conversation I had at the apex of the evening tonight. At some point before reaching the end I may nod out from a pill that makes me think it is a good idea to go for a midnight drive in a stolen car at 3:30 AM to a soundtrack of obscure 70s kraut rock. For all I know, this is my last message to you. If so, I hope that you are deeply moved.
(There may be a number of free resource articles online that could shed light on some of those substances, but they are probably nowhere near enough to paint a pretty solid picture of the damage they can actually do.)
(Note: Yeah, I thought it was a joke at first too, but it is now 4:52 AM and it turns out that was a self-fulfilling prophecy. I did in fact go on a joyride at 3:30 AM this morning, ostensibly to get laid, and promptly forgot where I was. Couldn't find the house I had been to a million times that was about 5 minutes away- Thanks, Rozarem. I drove around on an adventure I will never remember for an hour trying to find the house. Sexually frustrated, mortified and humiliated, I resolved to call it a loss and drove to an undisclosed fast food restaurant open at 4:30 AM to pick up a breakfast burrito because I am a consumer whore. I don't remember much of this, other than driving through the exit eating the burrito spilling hotsauce all over my khakis which at the moment look like I just menstruated all over them.)

More on Bradley The Buyer: WHAT ARE THE 404 DOCUMENTS?

Meanwhile, I'm hashing out the details of this "piece" with JC. Talking about the "conceptual continuity" of this piece right now is a bit like doing push hand martial arts with an alligator... An alligator with 30 hands made out of black tar heroin.

So I'll just cut to the chase and save him the trouble of having to wade through another 8 pages of this: have you heard of the drug JWH-18? Most people haven't, even though they have consumed it. (What does that say about the mentality of self-made "urban shaman" who readily swallow or smoke anything handed to them?)

JWH-18 is a synthetic cannabanoid. To me, it sounds uncomfortably similar to the Zombie chemical in the "RETURN OF THE LIVING DEAD" series (245 trioxin- within the mythos of the series it is a chemical the army initially used to spray on marijuana, ironically enough, and is ultimately responsible for reanimating dead corpses. Bear with me here, I am building up to my master's thesis on the zombification of America that will ultimately decompose if you pardon the pun and disintegrate into the gibberish of the cold light of morning and sobriety. Or maybe that was Prof. Rowan. I get all of us mixed up sometimes.)

I myself have NEVER tried any sort of legal drug sold at a headshop before, so I wouldn't really know, but word through the grapevine is that we - and I say that in a very general sense, the "we" being the general public because I would never knowingly consume a dangerous unknown substance - are all sort of guinea pigs. Canary in the mineshaft. Enter cliche here. The point is, we have no fucking clue what the long term repurcussion is of any of the legal or illegal chemicals we’re pumping into our bodies at unfathomable rates.

The person who introduced me to the guy at the headshop that I wasn’t at I will not name. If that's cryptic enough for you. He is a new friend. That is all I will tell you.

After randomly playing a Vinnie Paz solo track, my new friend began to ask me questions about the Illuminati, and conspiracy theories in general. I was wearing my coffee stained wife beater with an Eye in Triangle design crudely drawn on it in black magic(k) marker with the word "fnord" ambiguously printed underneath of it and a pair of dark wrap-around sunglasses that I never removed throughout the entire 4 hours I spent with him.

I read his aura through a psychic body scan process only taught to the higher degrees of illuminated adepts (the people who pay their dues on time, apparently) and I surmised he was safe to speak with, guardedly.

After all, I don’t know how advanced he is in the Order. 404! 404!

"Of course I know about the Illuminati. I have a confession to make: I am an Illuminatus.” I paused for a minute, and then decided to get down to brass tacks. “Unfortunately, I’m a disinformation agent, so you can't rely on much of anything I tell you.”

It was only after he sold me a chunk of black tar the size of my thumb that I decided to come clean with him. That really helped break the ice.

He was more open-minded than most of you humans. I have learned to keep silence in these matters and break it very infrequently. Only when it is a luxury that I can afford. Nevertheless, I still felt by the silent response on his face and the disturbance in his Chi (he spilt the pot) that I had dropped a proverbial turd in the punch bowl. Everything smelled foul and I knew I may have to run for my life. Soon. I tried to keep my anxiety under wraps.

He asked me a few initial questions, so I tried to hold it together.

The organization I represent is very real, though it operates under many different names because we have to keep them guessing. No. There is no grand conspiracy. I think we are conditioned to miss the obvious more often than not and opt for the fantastic or incredible. The best hidden truths are in plain sight.

I told him briefly of the interior design of The Plan: Let one hand know not what the other does, isolated cells operating largely independently of one another, no element of The Plan that is known by one cell is typically known by more than a few others at any given time. Ultimately, both sides in the struggle seem to play directly into one another, and at the end of The Game, the pieces go back together again into the same box.

I think I read that somewhere.

He asked me the typical questions: "Is Barbara Bush Aleister Crowley's daughter?"

"No, maybe. I don't know. So what if she is? Jesus."

"What do you think about Dan Brown?"

Sorry. Had to take a break there to eat half a dozen stale dinner rolls smothered in red wine vinegar and a pack of Slim Jims. And some sort of what I imagine to be fish covered in some creamy white sauce. FUCK am I ever itchy.

Meat and potatoes: The conversation with Bradley at the headshop. My friend who asked me the questions about my involvement within the Order immediately referenced Bradley to me as someone I needed to meet, and I eagerly told him that the name Bradley in reference to any of the above was particularly relevant to me, Bradley the Buyer. There had to be a reason for this. Bradley. Bradley. Bradley.

When we arrived, I promptly purchased 15 grams of Kratom and ate it. The conversation that ensued began with my inconspiquous fixation on the “Aeon Blue” herbal incense at the counter. The package bore an image of a glowing, eerily illuminated crystal shaped like a human skull juxtaposed against a Mayan pyramid.

I'm not going to insult your intelligence here and assume you don't know anything about the significance of Crystal Skulls in popular culture, Mayan prophecy or contemporary conspiracy theory. Google that shit. The bottom line was we both instantaneously grasped the REAL conspiracy at work here.

Bradley looked at me with intense knowing eyes. The level of hivemind telepathy in the room was palpable.

"These are the new spices. You know about this shit? I personally think..."

"Why the fuck is it called Aeon Blue? A Mayan pyramid and a Crystal Skull with an otherworldly glowing blue radiance to it? Not very subtle, are they?"

"Exactly, man... You know what I think? You ever notice how all of these new herbs and synthetic cannabanoids they are coming up with are always called 'APOCALYPSE' or 'DOOMSDAY' or some shit? What if they are putting something in this JWH-18 shit that will be activated come THEIR manufactured Doomsday? What if..."

"Yeah, Bradley. Nanotechnology. THEY are using nanotechnology now. Pretty sophisticated stuff. Ever read about Radionics? The best kept secrets are RIGHT OUT IN THE OPEN STARING US IN THE FACE. Let's just say in this hypothetical you are speaking of, they pump this new drug out in mass quantities and market it directly towards certain marginalized young persons... Now, after this drug has been consumed long enough by the masses, they need only flip a couple of switches and..."

"ZOMBIE APOCALYPSE?!!"

"Exactly."

We were momentarily taken aback by the spontaneous realization that dawned not only upon Bradley and I but everyone else in the room simultaneously. After that, I taught him how to make Zombie powder, just in case (it’s an extract of black puffer fish and datura stramonium. This is commonly believed to be the origin of popular zombie films today.) This powder was used to lobotomize human beings chemically, subsequently "killing" them medically. The zombiemaker would then brainwash the human vessel into doing his or her bidding. I’ve been “meditating” all day upon Grant Morrison and his comic "The Invisibles", which has a scenario very similar to the one I just depicted.

"Bradley, I don't know about you, but I wouldn't smoke some unknown spice with a glowing Crystal Skull juxtaposed against a Mayan pyramid in the background. Would you?"

"No."

The conversation quickly made its way to staple stoner conversation: Terrence McKenna, crop circles, 2012, Timewave calculations and the collapse of the Western World as we know it. The general consensus in the room: "We are all pretty fucked."

We live in a frightening new world. These truly are interesting times. Highly potent psychoactive smokable drugs marketed as "Spice" that may or may not be mind control agents. Amphetamine analogues marketed as "bath salts". A pill for every mood, a fix for every scenario. Do you want to know what the Red Pill from The Matrix series is? Robitussin Cough and Cold Gels. There, I said it. Your mileage may vary. Don't follow the White Rabbit too far, Alice. There is a There There. The rabbit hole is bottomless...

Do your research. And you shouldn't believe anything just because I say it. Remember, the plainest truths are hiding right out in the open.

Yours In Christ,

Frank the Rozarem Bunny.

P.S. This is how you can turn yourself into an astral Octopus:

College of Aetheric Sciences: Octopus Visualization 1 by agent139

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