After Ray and all the limos leave, the police sergeant’s persuaded by Tommy, to go inside for just one beer. Tommy, using chi-persuasion: “Come on, when’s the last time you enjoyed a cold beer? I won’t tell anyone! You’ve earned it, believe me.”
Tommy, and an attractive black-woman, Shawanna, enjoy a beer with the tight-assed sergeant. The police-sergeant’s roofied; barroom begins to spin; music distorts; fragrance of alcohol floods the sergeant’s nostrils.
The police sergeant came to make drunk-driving arrests, had no idea what the people, he was messing with were capable of. The dog caught the truck’s bumper.
The police sergeant, now semi-conscious; Shawanna walks the sergeant to a VIP sex-suite; lays him on the bed; undresses him. Shawanna: “Hold on honey; Shawanna will be right back. Shawanna needs to freshen-up a-bit.”
The sergeant smiles at her; thinks to himself: I’m really gonna do this. The sergeant’s completely nude, (except for his wedding ring,) on the small room’s-bed; warm, perspiring; focussing — ceiling-fan spinning above him. As the blades rotate, notices, if he chooses, he can will the blades to stop, or rotate in the opposite direction; if he chooses, he can hold the fan fixed, as the entire-room rotates.
The Police Sergeant thinks to himself: I’m really fucked-up. The sergeant looks beyond the spinning blades, to the four white ceiling-fan lights. Frosted-glass, rose-shaped fixtures direct their incandescent-bulbs’ light to the four corners of the room. The ceiling’s mirrored, seamlessly. Expensive mirror.
The police-sergeant looks at his naked-body’s reflection; admiring his own girth (Shawanna’s got his juices flowing.) Hard, stiff, washboard stomach, six pack. The sergeant’s never been with another woman besides his wife. The two of them met in high-school, Pennsylvania; conservative small-town church.
The sergeant’s wife doesn’t enjoy sex very much; he regrets not knowing that before they got married; now, he questions church doctrine concerning sex. Thinks to himself: Sex is a biological need, yet, I’m filled with guilt every time we make love, even though we’re married. Make love? No, fuck. Fuck fuck fuck!
The sergeant smiles, proud he’s able to say the word fuck, in his thoughts at least. Can’t even say the word ‘fuck’ out-loud; barely even in my head. Sex is ‘dirty’; fuck, a dirty-fucking word.
The sergeant smiles again. Why did the church give fucking to The Devil? Handed sex to Satan on a platter. We didn’t give sunsets to The Devil? Or food? Or defecation? Or nearly any other pleasurable, or biological need, why fucking?
The sergeant imagines his mom’s voice: ‘You better leave there now! Stop thinking dirty thoughts! Get away from that Jezebel! Go home to your wife!’
The sergeant envisions his mom now, not a mirror in the house; home-made dresses covering her: neck to ankle.
Mom: ‘Vanity’s a mortal sin!’
What isn’t a fucking mortal-sin ma?
Mom: ‘You deserve what you get! Potty mouth! Get in bed with the devil, don’t be shocked when the fucking starts.’
Mom would never say ‘fucking.’ Yet, I just heard her voice say it. What’s taking Shanaynay so long?
“It’s Shawanna.” The voice is low, a man’s voice; non-native speaker; OTB Asian-accent.
The sergeant tries to sit-up; can’t. Paralysis from the drug. I’ve been drugged!
Mom’s voice: You should’ve listened to me, now you’re fucked.
The sergeant responds to his mother’s imagined-voice, audibly: Sergeant: “Tired of listening to you mom!”
Two men, (one appears Asian, the other looks hispanic,) look down at the naked sergeant — nude, supine, spread-eagle on the bed.
Asian man: “Does the sergeant even know WE’RE here?”
Hispanic man: “He knows; he’s really fucked up.
The sergeant feels a short but sharp pain penetrate his neck: Needle prick. Warm-liquid flowing down the inside of my spinal chord; diffusion; permeating every cell; radiating to every corner of my body.
The Asian man, responding to the sergeant’s thoughts: “It was a needle-prick; you’ve been injected with an ultra-high-dosage Sodium-Pentothal derivative — truth serum, specially formulated to root the subconscious.”
The sergeant again tries to move; can’t even turn his head.
Asian man: “Here I’ll help you.” He props the sergeant up on a pillow, points the sergeant’s head towards them. Slowly, two men come into focus: An Asian man in his 50s; a Hispanic man of about the same age.
I can’t even talk; can’t move a muscle; can barely focus my eyes.
Asian man: “WE don’t need you to talk, open your eyes, or move.”
They’re reading my thoughts?
Asian man: “Yes.”
Impossible! I must be talking and just not realize it; this must be a dream!
Asian man: “Think what you want; you’re so fucked-up, the result’s the same; WE will get what WE want: information. Why are you here sergeant? Who do you work for?”
The sergeant smiles, closes his eyes, thinks: Cancel cancel; sleep sleep.
Asian man: “He’s out.”
Hispanic man: “Was afraid of that.”
Asian man: “The sergeant’s been programmed before; subconscious, hypnotically-embedded anchor-words: ‘cancel cancel, sleep sleep.’ His subconscious has completely shut down to us; his mind’s blank, unreadable; unresponsive to stimuli.
That’s OK, a Furai specialist, an empathic-witch is in-transit; she’ll peel him open like a fucking onion; way beyond what I’m capable of. She’s walking in the building now.”
She walks in, high-heeled black-pumps. Smiles.
The Asian man: “Do your majik Cynthia.”
Cynthia smiles, in appreciation of the respect inferred. Cynthia to the Asian man, “Good to see you Chewy. See you’ve got Dr. Mengele with you.”
The Hispanic smiles, showing he appreciates her humor, and recognition of his rare skill-set and talent stack. “Someone’s gotta keep them alive; they’re useless to US dead. The sergeant’s on the brink of death, another few-drops of juice, his heart will stop.”
Cynthia: “What have you got here Chewy?”
Chewy: “Don’t know. Suspect a fed-mole of some kind. They pulled this one out of the deep sticks. Some fucking religious-fanatic, ultra-loyal, a real fucking boy-scout with sex issues, guilt issues, mommy issues.”
Cynthia: “How much juice did you give him Jose? Do YOU have root?”
They look at each other. José smiles boastfully. Chewy: “Oh yah. The sergeant’s been arguing audibly with his dead-mother, and questioning his religion.”
Cynthia: “Yah, you’ve got root.”
Cynthia laughs. Cynthia: “The root of nearly all psychosis.”
Chewy: “Yup. Lee Harvey Oswald in the flesh; leveraged and reprogrammed for some dark-purpose.”
José: “We’ve induced near-total paralysis, the police-sergeant can barely even focus his eyes. We took him to the brink of death–then, confessed our intention to forcibly seize information from his mind. Usually, the patient will either give-up, or think about who their master is. (Either way we win, one of the benefits of telepathy.)
However, this sergeant’s been rooted before, some federal-agency; highly-sophisticated controllers; they’ve placed hypnotic-locks on his subconscious.”
Cynthia: “So by threatening him, he locked-up his subconscious. You can’t read his mind, because he locked-it-up tight.”
Cynthia: “He’s married?”
Jose: “Possibly a cover, or she’s a handler, or she’s a controlled victim too. She’s part of his control, whether she knows it or not is unknown. They snagged this poor-bastard young, probably at age 16; some sex-kitten princess stole him from mom, now she doesn’t fuck him.”
Cynthia: “Yah, I know the whole routine Walt Disney.”
They all laugh. Cynthia: “He can’t hear us at all? Very odd. I’m not sensing any awareness on his part that we’re even here. Even if he was fast asleep; he’d still react to room noise.”
Jose: “His hypnotic shutdown-switch has switched-off his hearing, or, more precisely, he’s probably listening to something like Slayer in his head, full blast.”
Cynthia: “An internal soundtrack? Clever. His hearing is technically still there, his ears still work, it’s just his internal-focus is on imaginary loud-music. And you’re right, probably listening to ‘the devil’s music.’ Satanic-music guilt, anything to make him feel bad about himself, in need of redemption. His controllers tell him he’s damned, and that they alone control his path to salvation.”
Chewy: “Programmers, controllers and handlers are twisted, but I gotta hand it to them, they really got their hooks in this one.”
Jose: “Probably sees a shrink regularly, reports once a month for therapy. He may not even remember these visits.”
Cynthia: “How would that work?”
Jose: “You want his fucking life-story?”
Cynthia: “Enlighten me.”
Jose: “OK. So, the way the system works, every public and private school K-12 has at-least one DOD-liaison. Just like the DIA, NSA, CIA and FBI are active on college campuses: recruiting, infiltrating, organizing, influencing, etc– It’s also done with kids as young as kindergarten-age, (some even younger.)
Government agents catalog every child going through the educational system: public and private schools. Our sergeant had traits they sought: weaknesses, characteristics, tendencies, quirks, strengths–whatever they needed.
He was probably identified for his tendency toward fanaticism. With men like our sergeant: there’s black and white, gray is not an option. So his handlers found him, then, they created a system of complete control around him. There may be twenty or more people involved in his control; he’s an asset they wanted, money is not an issue; no expense is too-great.”
“The Federal Reserve has deep pockets, the police state is boundless; anyway–So, in kindergarten our sergeant was probably identified as being abused, alcoholic father; strict church-ritual; over-protective mother. They created a psych-profile; cataloged him in a database; watched him through adolescence.
At some point they decided: he’s what we need; get him. So, from out of nowhere his current wife comes into his life. On Monday, she wasn’t interested in him; Tuesday, she’s head-over-heels in-love with him. Maybe she fucked his brains out, driving a sex-guilt wedge between him and his church; maybe, she was the perfect wholesome Christian-girl, and they abstained from sex until marriage.
There’s millions of scenarios, millions of possible levers–the point is: she could be a controller, (consciously pulling his strings,) or she’s a completely-controlled cattle-prod to get him to move, in whatever direction they desire.”
Chewy: “Control the woman; control the sex; they control the man.”
José: “He’s probably tuned monthly–either a shrink, which he thinks he needs, or he doesn’t even know he’s seeing a shrink. The shrink is a government programmer of course: hypnotically-implanting instructions–tuning him, grooming him; making him forget his own fucking-name, his own family.”
Cynthia: “How could he not know?”
José laughs. Jose: “Really? Use your imagination. How would you do it?”
She looks at the naked sergeant, six-pack abs; well built. Cynthia: “I’d program him to visit the gym–without fail, every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. I’d program him to keep to himself at the gym–so no one would miss him if he didn’t show.
Once a month–on one of his normally-scheduled workout-days, he’d drive to my office; I’d tune him–implant instructions for the following month–then, he’d forget all about our visit until our next appointment.
I’d implant a hypnotic code-word for emergency visits, like a text message that says: ‘You missed your workout.’ Triggering him to come see me, immediately. If somehow he fell out-of-tune–(through a car accident or whatever,) I’d use his wife to get him to me.”
Chewy: “Bet he hasn’t been to his hometown in 15 years.”
José: “Nope, too-dangerous. If he goes home, he might run into someone who knows he’s been changed.”
Chewy: “They probably injected his mom with malignant cancer-cells, then programmed him to be too-busy to visit her on her death bed.”
Cynthia: “More guilt more leverage.”
Cynthia: “What’s his name?”
Chewy: “His agency-name is James Murphy.”
José: “Probably his middle-name, or some new-name to distance his new-self from his old-self.”
Chewy: “MK-Ultra textbook case, could probably program this one to shoot-up a school–“
Cynthia: “Or blow-up a federal building.”
Chewy: “Or fly an airplane into a building full of people.”
José: “Or give the order to stand down.”
Chewy: “Or obey the order to stand down.”
They look at each other, nonverbally-acknowledging unanimously: enough said.
Cynthia: “What’s his mother’s name?”
Cynthia: “Sarah Murphy?”
Chewy: “Not when she died of cancer, but when James knew her. She remarried after her alcoholic-husband died.”
Cynthia: “More guilt. James is probably codependent, an enabler; seeks abuse then bitches about it.” Cynthia thinks for a moment, looks at police-sergeant James Murphy with empathy.
Cynthia: “What do you need James Murphy?” Cynthia closes her eyes, deep belly-breathing.
Cynthia repeats louder: “What do you need James Murphy?” Continues her deep, mind-penetrating meditation. Cynthia opens her eyes as if to say: ‘ureka!’
Cynthia: “OK. I’m ready. I know how to get in; bring in Shawanna.”
Chewy smiles, sends a text message. Shawanna arrives three-minutes later.
Cynthia: “Shawanna, straddle him, put your double ds in his face.”
Shawanna smiles jokingly: Shawanna: “I’m charging full rate.”
Chewy smiles jokingly: Chewy: “Come on, he’s fucking-asleep.”
Shawanna: “Don’t mess with Shawanna’s money, honey.”
Shawanna unsnaps her bra, double-ds, silver-dollars, bumpy-brails–engulf the sleeping-sergeant’s face, in the warmth of her abnormally-large breasts.
James Murphy doesn’t react, although, he starts becoming sexually-aroused.
Cynthia: “Put your nipple in his mouth, stroke his hair, whisper in his ear, ‘James, it’s your mother.”
Shawanna whispers sweetly: “James, it’s your mother.”
My mother wouldn’t call me James. Cynthia, responding to James’s thoughts: “What would she call you James?”
Cynthia: “Joshua! Get that Jezebel off of you!”
Joshua James Murphy opens his eyes, sees Shawanna. I can’t move, mother.
Cynthia: “It’s OK Joshua, close your eyes.”
Cynthia taps Shawanna on the shoulder, whispers to her, “Shawanna; you can leave now; thank you.”
Cynthia places her hands firmly on Joshua’s skull, cupping his ears, thumbs on his forehead; she grips him tightly, her eyes turn jet-black. Cynthia begins transmitting her thoughts into Joshua’s head: Cynthia: Joshua.
Cynthia: Who do you work for?
I can’t tell you.
Cynthia: You will tell me.
Cynthia: What is hell?
Joshua feels a cigarette being slowly-extinguished on his exposed-testicles–(chi-energy directed nerve stimulation.) The burning isn’t real; the considerable-pain induced by Cynthia’s highly focussed-mind.
That all you got? Satan?
Joshua feels an electric-pulse travel from her hands, course, through his body; feels his whole-body convulse. Joshua screams in agony in his mind, no sound escapes his lips.
I’m still paralyzed. Is that all you got? Satan?
Cynthia smiles. Cynthia: Not hardly.
I’ve got your son!
Joshua, focussing all his will: opens his eyes; pure terror.
Who are you? What are you?
Cynthia’s eyes return to normal, she smiles: empathetically; compassionately.
Who are you? What are you?
Cynthia smiles demonically, diabolically; her face contorts, forehead-veins become thick and pronounced; eyes jet-black. Cynthia: We can do this a number of ways.
I don’t believe you; fuck you. Joshua envisions: Josh Jr. with a strange man. Joshua’s watching TV; The man’s holding a hairdryer.
Cynthia: Know what seared child-flesh smells like?
Cynthia: Of course you do.
Tour of duty in Iraq.
Cynthia: Yes I know. If you want to be home tonight, Josh Jr intact, answer me! NOW! Who do you work for?
I’m locked up tight. I can’t say, I honestly don’t know.
Cynthia: Remove your subconscious lock.
No one can remove it.
Cynthia’s eyes return to normal, she releases Joshua’s skull; Police-sergeant Joshua James Murphy closes his eyes once again. Cynthia: “Bring me a Bible.”
José: “An actual Bible, or will my iPad work?”
She scoffs, snatches the iPad from José. Cynthia: “This will do.”
Cynthia looks up a passage; returns her hands to Joshua’s head; her eyes turn black once again. Cynthia: Joshua, Luke 13:12.
Cynthia projects an image: Joshua’s trusted-childhood firebrand-pastor, Roberts, left-hand on his Bible, right-hand on young-Joshua’s 12-year-old forehead, in a loud voice:
‘Luke 13:12! Joshua, Thou art loosed!’
I am free?
Pastor Roberts: ‘Of all bondage.’
Amen. Thank you Jesus.
Cynthia: Who do you work for?
Chewy: “Tough nut to crack, good job.”
Cynthia: “Thank you.”
Chewy: “WE know everything now, he belongs to US. WE know who he reports to, where, when. With OUR moles WE can find out who’s pulling his strings; then pull theirs.”
Chewy: “What should we do with him?”
Cynthia: “What do you want to do with him?”
Chewy: “Can he be made whole? Can he be converted?”
Cynthia: “Unknown. His psychosis is deep; his controllers are powerful. He’s rooted in deep guilt. If he can overcome his guilt, release it, drop it like a bag of bricks, he can be completely freed.
If he chooses to remain bound by guilt, he’ll remain a slave; a tool of others.”
Chewy: “Could this be a trick? Is it possible he was programmed to ‘spill his guts,’ when in actuality he is lying to you–concealing his real handlers.”
Cynthia: “No, don’t think so. I believe the threat of his son’s torture was the initial-lever we needed. He wanted to talk after that, but couldn’t. Once WE told him Jesus has freed him; he told US everything.
The Bureau has no defense against witches employing: empathy, telepathy, psychology, and near-lethal doses of their own drugs.”
Chewy: “You used his Christianity against him.”
Cynthia: “No, I reminded him that Jesus is stronger than any bondage. They twisted his Christianity, not me.”
Cynthia: “We’ve taken him apart, ripped him up the middle. How do you want him stitched back up?”
Chewy: “We need some time on this one. I recommend WE create a relationship with Shawanna. Give him fond programmed-memories of tonight; a night of wild passionate-sex.
Obviously, he forgets the interrogation, the drugging, OUR session. Bring him back, HERE every-Friday, time will tell.”
Cynthia: “Easy enough.”
Chewy: “Will we be able to turn him?”
Cynthia: “Like I said, unknown. That doesn’t mean WE can’t use him. If he’s gonna be enslaved by someone, might as well be US.”
José: “What can we use him for?”
Cynthia: “He’s a fanatic, a zealot; a potential suicide-bomber. He would do anything to get the bad guys. We’ve got a sleeper cell! Joshua’s a God-damned space-monkey.”
José: “So, worst case, Joshua’s cooked, too-far gone to salvage. If this is true, WE use him as OUR programmed-spy, or useful-idiot assassin.
Best case, WE can completely free him; he’ll become one of US: a planted Furai FBI-mole, or WE ship him off the grid for protection.”
Cynthia: “How should we stitch-him-up in the meantime?”
Chewy: “Give him guilt over sleeping with Shawanna, not enough that he stops coming, just enough that he keeps his affair a secret.
Make sure he stays with his wife, and keeps reporting to his FBI-controllers. If they suspect anything, make them dig hard to discover his adultery. Bury it deep.
If they discover the adultery, they’ll probably allow it to continue, and try to harness the relationship for his mission, as a Furai contact, and as guilt leverage.
Until he’s converted, assuming WE can do that, obviously WE have to treat him like an FBI agent.”
Cynthia: “Do you want leverage on him?”
Chewy: “No. I want to free this one completely if possible. If we try to leverage him, he’ll see US as the bad guys. In time, I’m hopeful, he’ll see US as the good guys: the ones who freed him from control.
He’ll do anything for the good guys, that’s how he’s built. If we start to make progress, we’ll have to either separate him from his wife, or reprogram her if she’s been programmed.”
Bag of Bricks
José: “Do you really believe you can free him?”
Cynthia: “If he wants to be freed. Control’s a funny thing, it’s like any form of abuse, brains get wired for it, eventually, they crave it, actually seek it out, demand it.
Joshua’s Christianity can be a source of strength, or a source of weakness.
Chewy: “It’s a bag of bricks.”
Cynthia: “For some, yes. Beware the yeast of the Pharisees.”