Jack Heart Esoteric Evolution
Jack Heart Conversations From The Porch
Peter Pan Meets Pyramid Head II & III by Jack Heart & Orage

Peter Pan Meets Pyramid Head II & III by Jack Heart & Orage

First published Sunday, April 16, 2017, in the Human

Without the benefit of the modern internet, or at least a Wikipedia styled encyclopedia with hyperlinks, Preston Nichols could not have written The Montauk Project: Experiments in Time. It’s doubtful that any of the best science fiction writers today could, let alone a neophyte author in the beginning of the nineties. He made a few unintentional mistakes, insignificant ones like calling wavelets wavicles but any real errors are deliberate. There are rules.

Nichols begins with an old standby of conspiracy hucksters; placing the genesis of Stealth Technology in the so called “Philadelphia experiment” which supposedly took place in 1943. According to lore, promulgated by Hollywood and the rest of the CIA’s disinformation outlets, during an experiment based on the work of Albert Einstein a ship was made to disappear from the Philadelphia Naval yard and appear at the Norfolk Naval base hundreds of miles away, then disappear there and reappear back at the Philadelphia Naval yard. There is not one shred of legitimate evidence for that story, not even the flimsiest of circumstantial evidence…


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But from there Nichols suddenly turns real and adroitly adjusts his course right through the heart of the labyrinth. Canceling Einstein’s Philadelphia experiment Nichols puts von Neumann at the helm of Project Rainbow exactly where he would have to have been. In Norse mythology the Bifröst is a Burning Rainbow Bridge that reaches between the realms of the gods called Asgard and earth called Midgard. After suspending Project Rainbow to work on the Manhattan Project, von Neumann resumed the experiments after the war, under direction of the Brookhaven Lab, as the Phoenix Project. The Phoenix is a great raptor that rises from the ashes of its own destruction. It is the coat of arms for the German Empire and seven hundred years before that the Holy Roman Emperor; Frederick II…

Coat of Arms of Frederick II, seven feathers on each wing and seven feathers on the tail equals 777

What von Neumann was working on was nothing less than Godhood itself. The fulfilment of prophecy made by the Goddess to a German order of the Knights Templar at the gates of her most ancient city of Nineveh during the reign of Frederick II, over seven hundred years ago. Later during Frederick’s reign, she appeared repeatedly at the foot of the Untersberg Mountain. In the shadow of that mountain the Goddess made her Vow. A mountain many including Hitler, who had his vacation residence the Berghof built overlooking it, believe is the doorway to other worlds. A mountain that during his pilgrimage there in 1992 the exiled Dali Lama called “a sleeping Dragon” and “the heart chakra of the world…”

There at the foot of the sleeping dragon she promised the Lords of the Black Stone or Die Herren vom Schwarzen Stein, or very simply the SS… that the Black Sun would one day rise to pierce the darkness of the tyrants prison freeing Man to become the immortal “wanderer over the ridges of the worlds” (5) that he is “destined to become” (6) in the Age of Aquarius…     

We can create our own artificial reality. In Nichols own words: “The Rainbow technology turns on and creates what can be called an "alternate" or "artificial reality."” ( 7) The experimental subject is enveloped in an electromagnetic bottle removing it from the space-time continuum and rending it invisible. It was this “"electromagnetic bottle" technology which eventually resulted in today's stealth fighter craft.” (8)

When Gabor’s math is applied to the Schumann resonance, using high-frequency technology honed to perfection in von Ardennes’s Batcave, not only images can be projected but entire alternate realities. The historical elite of the German, Anglo-American and Russian empires who hide behind pop culture politics, all had this technology by the end of WW II. They were sharing it. That is why von Neumann, the best of the best, came to America first, then Heinz Schlicke after a world war in the forties which Aleister Crowley had planned in 1904. That is why Oskar Heil and Agnesa Arsenjewa were bouncing between England and Russia before the start of that war and that is why Manfred von Ardenne and Gustav Hertz went to Russia after that war.

The problem faced by von Neumann after WW II, which the elite look at as the fulfilment of the Egyptian prophecy of a second battle between Horus and Seth, was people placed within the electromagnetic bottle, or artificial reality if you will, were afflicted with what Nichols calls “transdimensional disorder.” (9) This state of permanent madness is due to the extreme disorientation of consciousness which results from its inability to anchor to a timeline in an artificial reality that doesn’t have one. According to Nichols because the human “soul” is born with one it must have a “"time reference" point.” (10) Referring to the Schumann resonance Nichols tells his readers that this time reference point “actually resides within the electromagnetic background of our planet.” (11)

After ten years of extensive experimentation and research von Neumann solved the problem by using computers to “generate an electromagnetic background (or phony stage)” (12) and “feeding into the "bottle" all the natural backgrounds of the Earth -- at least enough to convince them of a continuous stream time reference.” (13) Even according to academia’s incompletely sourced narrative, above all his other superhuman achievements; John von Neumann was to computers what Jimi Hendrix was to the electric guitar…

Before Hollywood invented The Matrix, there was the Montauk Projects...

Among Nichols’ circle of friends his story was taken so seriously that John Ford, the president of the Long Island U.F.O. Network and three of his friends were given lengthy prison sentences after being implicated in a 1996 plot to poison then Suffolk County Republican Chairman John Powell, Suffolk Legislator Fred Towle and Brookhaven Conservative Party chief Anthony Gazzola by exposing them to radium.

The Matrix released in 1999 was only just the beginning. A still thriving cottage industry has crawled forth from the Montauk Project to flood the alternative media with bad science fiction. “Super soldiers,” apparently genetically engineered to look just like accountants to blend in, are giving interviews to anyone gullible enough to listen. Crackpot purveyors of dangerous disinformation like David Icke, who claims he is the son of God, make millions a year embellishing on what Preston Nichols brought to the table with the Montauk Projects. Oddly enough Nichols never really capitalized himself. He didn’t advertise and he wasn’t looking to sell books. Soon after publishing, he made his way like a guided missile right for his target…

I had been away for a couple of years. When I got back in 1992 I had twin two-year-old girls and a trophy wife who was a part-time mother and a full-time gangster. Money, which had always come in piles I didn’t bother counting before I spent, was now hard to come by. I found myself working two jobs just to make ends meet. One of them was at a car wash by the intersection of Hempstead Turnpike and Route 109, probably the most heavily trafficked intersection on Long Island. The car wash was part of a parcel of buildings that included Total Health; a one-stop nutrition and occult store that was the hub of Long Islands thriving New Age movement. From there the most avant-garde Aquarian lectures were coordinated all over the island and New York City. Marty Myers, my mothers on again off again boyfriend till he died a few years ago, owned the whole block. He was the Jewish brains behind the “mafia” gas tax scam Michael Franzese is always on TV bragging about.

Marty and my mother were very close friends with Dr. J J Hurtak the man who was covertly calling the shots, in behalf of NASA and the NSA, on the Giza plateau for the last twenty-five years of the twentieth century. I think it was through him I met Richard Hoagland; NASA’s pyramids on Mars guy. When I wasn’t wrestling dirt bags for a full share of the tips in the car wash I was in the store rubbing elbows with just about everybody who was anybody in the New Age movement. I think it was Deepak Chopra that I once told he reminded me of the swami from a Frank Zappa song…

With what I’d seen and done I was hardly impressed, especially with Hurtak, his pidgin Hebrew and “coming beings of pure light.” Which he assured them all would be arriving momentarily to take over the planet and guide the human race to a new and greater destiny. They were all attending study classes on his book; The Keys of Enoch. I remember when my mother gave me a copy. I smiled and thanked her; feigned fascination, took it home and threw it in the garbage. It was a very expensive book but it reminded me too much of my copy of Aleister Crowley’s Holy Books which had nearly killed me a few years back. The covers were almost identical.

Besides it was payback for an English translation of the Gospel of Aradia that I had managed to obtain while I was away and sent home. Somehow my mother had got her hands on the extremely rare at the time Witches bible while it was at my house and thrown it away; claiming it was evil.

Into this circus of the strange, seemingly… bumbled Preston Nichols. When I saw him in the store I immediately recognized him, having seen him once a few years ago in the strip clubs where I had run security. He was morbidly obese and dressed like he was trying to define the word nerd. Yet the night he walked into Bogart’s bar is etched in my brain. He was arguing with a skinny guy about the same age as himself over rock bands. He stopped in front of me and pronounced U2 to the skinny guy like something had been decided. He was like that, what he said in spite of a comical almost disgusting appearance and an unassuming voice, stuck in people’s heads like a traumatic life-defining event. He had them snake charmed in Total Health before he walked out the door on the first day. A week later I was given his book by my mother or Marty and told I just had to read it.

First thing I noticed was Nichols story revolved around Camp Hero where my father had been stationed during the Korean War. My father was 101est Airborne; Screaming Eagles, a golden gloves semi-finalist, captain of crazy Joe Gallo’s Brooklyn kiddy gang the Gremlins and about as gung ho as John Wayne. All his friends from boot camp and he had a lot of them, had seen active combat. I had always wondered why if the army wouldn’t parachute him in he hadn’t swum to Korea on his own. When I asked him he was always a little vague but it turned out he was one of the best shots in the army, even then if he couldn’t center a bullseye at 300 yards “the scope needed adjusting.” He would adjust all his friends’ scopes for them when he was a hunting guide. So what he told me, that he had been kept in Montauk to shoot for the 101est in military competitions seemed plausible.

Fleeing the Brooklyn heroin epidemic during the Vietnam War he had moved out to Long Island when I was eleven years old. I didn’t like killing animals much but fish didn’t bother me in the least so he quickly acquired a captain’s license to run up to ninety ton charter boats. I spent a lot of time as a teenager out in Montauk working on those boats. The sound of the wind whistling through outriggers and water lapping boats at dockside late at night is even now vivid in my mind. There had been a very strange incident involving the abandoned base on the fourth of July when I was turning eighteen but other than that I had never noticed anything unusual about Montauk except its physical beauty. Life itself gets no better than trolling for stripers at night in the Tournament of the Full Moon, the inky darkness pierced by the lighthouse above and water roiling with phosphorescence below.

The giant radar dish was to the west of the lighthouse and my father had always been adamant that there could be no such things as flying saucers because they never picked a single UFO up on it during all the flying saucer hullabaloo of the early fifties. But my father had also always insisted that people made stuff up about dreams. He said he had never had a dream in his life…

In one of those funny little coincidences that aren’t coincidences, I had met my wife’s grandfather about the same time I met Preston Nichols. Her father, his son, had never been right in the head and was practically a ward of the VA. He had seen something that had to do with UFO’s when he was stationed in the Iceland in the early sixties. By the time he blew his brains out in the late nineties, he swore he could see the mothership waiting for him in the night sky over Patchogue. Her whole family on her father’s side was military.

Her grandfather was the patriarch and specialized in setting up radio towers, had one in his back yard for his ham radio. I had only gotten to meet him because stomach cancer had gotten the better of him in Southeast Asia. He thought his son was a blithering idiot, but he couldn’t wait to see his great granddaughters so when he got stateside, he immediately commissioned me to relandscape his North Babylon home while he and his wife watched the kids for me. I winced watching three-year old’s frolic on his stomach and moved to restrain the girls but he just wouldn’t have it. The man never even showed signs of pain as he sat there dying yet grinning approval at his fourth-generation progeny using his disease-racked body for a trampoline.

Nichols had been talking a lot about microwaves and oscillating frequency’s and my wife had let slip that her grandfather did a lot of top secret work with radio signals for the military but he didn’t talk to anyone about it. At the time I knew nothing about quantum physics and even less about radio waves and frequencies so the only part of Nichols story that made any sense to me was the part about Einstein and the Philadelphia experiment...

We were spending a lot of time over there so I brought Nichols book over his house and asked him naively whether any of the stuff in it was possible. He told me to leave the book with him so he could read it. When I saw him a day or two later the book was by his side and I asked him could any of it be true. He said nothing, he didn’t have too the way he looked at me and handed me the book back like he had just touched something that he shouldn’t have…

He never said another word about that book. When he finally died his funeral procession closed 231, the main road north and south on Long Island for about half a million people, and jammed it with hundreds of fire trucks and police cars. I have never seen anything like it; it was as if the president had died...

My life experiences till then had already left what the uninitiated call reality broken and shattered in pieces behind me, so the synchronicity of its current events hadn’t escaped me. I was always looking for explanations for what I’d lived through and already had run the gamut from aliens to Magick but had always kept Marty, my mother and Hurtak’s Team Tinkerbelle at arm’s length. I began paying much closer attention to Preston Nichols. When he came out with his second and third books which put Aleister Crowley at the center of it all, I knew I was being set up. Crowley was at the bottom of my rabbit hole too.

Besides when I first met Nichols my ex and I lived in a place called La Bonne Vie in East Patchogue. It was an upscale apartment complex filled with mostly young married people and singles. Some of the wives there had told her they had a neat way of making fifty dollars cash for an hour’s time spent listening to music in what is now the Hampton Inn in Brookhaven, about five minutes away. All they had to do is sit in the auditorium and listen to different music as it was played over headphones and press a response button whether they liked it or not. Since she used to go up there with about a half dozen other woman from around our courtyard I never questioned it. She was always back in an hour with the fifty dollars. One night she was overdue and since I didn’t have the kids I took a ride up there. When I got there the auditorium was just clearing out and she was getting up to leave with her friends. Preston Nichols was sitting at the podium in the front; obviously the man from the Brookhaven Lab giving the tests. I said nothing but when I saw him a few days later he claimed he didn’t remember and that kind of stuff was always happening with him; it was what originally inspired him to write the Montauk Projects. I never trusted him after that. The same thing was always happening to me too…

As far as I knew I had been in prison for two years, but there was something about my memories of it that just weren’t right. When I got home the first thing I did was have sex with my trophy wife. When we finally got done we were both lying in the bed naked and drenched in sweat. She suddenly got up and started rummaging through the closet for something. She came back to the bed holding a lightweight camouflage jacket and threw it at me. I asked her “what’s this?” She told me a customer, she was a barmaid, who had been in the gulf war had given it to her because he had been so disgusted with the army. Curious, I examined it and could see it was full of discolored spots on the fabric where the patches and insignias had all been carefully removed as if by razor so as not to rip the jacket. I thought that was a lot of trouble to go through for a guy who was disgusted with something. So I asked her about it. She just shrugged and said “I don’t know, maybe he didn’t want anybody to know who he was, I haven’t seen him in a while and I never got his name.” She could do that, tell you the most outlandish lie imaginable and then never budge from that lie despite all evidence to the contrary. I didn’t bother asking her anything else, I knew that would be futile but I did keep the jacket, mostly because she hated it and hated it even more when I wore it…

Around the beginning of 1995 we moved into a condo in West Patchogue. If things had been a little strange at La Bonne Vie and they were, this place made it look like Mayberry. Unmarked black helicopters periodically hovered at no more than a couple of hundred feet over the buildings, sometimes for fifteen minutes at a time. The noise was deafening but nobody ever seemed to notice or care. Guys from the Long Island Lighting Company or LILCO; Long Islands notoriously shady power suppliers, prowled the grounds non-stop with handheld devices that looked to be detection meters for underground power leaks. A feeling of general uneasiness permeated the place like something wasn’t right in the atmosphere; a feeling in the air itself that usually occurs as the aftermath of a very powerful electric storm.  

The courtyard was dominated by five couples, my wife and I being one of them, all in their early thirties and late twenties and an attractive woman, the same age that lived alone. Her I never talked even though my kids ran in and out of her condo at will, which was encouraged by her. I was told she had a very important job with the government involving security by the other couples but with me she always kept her distance. We were the only ones with kids and everybody partied very hard. Nobody even bothered locking their doors and we all walked in and out of each other’s condos, most of the time without even knocking. It was like a commune only everybody had money and nobody ever seemed to work much for it, if at all, including me. Of course, my wife was making a lot of money selling big eights (eighth of a pound) of cocaine right over the bar in the strip clubs where she was the most highly sought barmaid on the circuit. So even though I never approved or participated, outside of testing the product for quality, I didn’t really have to work anymore, let alone two jobs. The sad part was she had been dealing all along, she just didn’t tell me when I first got out because she “thought I would get mad…”

There were all night keg parties in the courtyard and on sultry summer day’s family outings to Cory beach. Preston once told me how he liked to go to Cory beach at night and test out his homemade electromagnetic pulse weapons by shooting down UFO’s…. He told me they were commonly seen at night over it but I never saw one in the daytime, the only time I ever went down there. There is a scorching summer day we spent there that is still vivid in my mind, one of those days where the heat actually turned the air hazy and the beach, even though it’s only on the bay, was packed with young married couples accompanied by their rug rats and dragging along anything that would float. As we passed by the concession there was a very strange looking older man by the tables who was talking real loud to no one in particular. You could hear him all the way down by the beach as he gave an historical recount of all Americas presidential administrations since Kennedy, finally concluding that HW Bush was the only one that was any good and how HW was the greatest American who ever lived. At the time I agreed with him. I think everybody on that beach did. Couples were making love right in the water with their kids building sand castles on the beach. It was like something right out of Woodstock. M. and I waded out to chest deep water and went at it next to a very attractive blond and her husband doing the same thing a few feet away. I think we all climaxed at the same time but nobody ever spoke a word to anybody but their own spouse. The act itself was almost mechanical but intensely pleasurable...

We had two neighbors named Joe. One was married to a girl who was partially paralyzed from cerebral palsy. He was a military man who had been shot in the head during a training exercise, leaving him with a golf ball sized crater in his skull and a full disability pension. One night we were all sitting around drinking beer, neither military Joe or his wife did cocaine. We were watching TV as the biggest forest fire Long Island had ever seen engulfed the Pine Barrens around the Brookhaven Lab, threatening to take out the lab itself. Miles upon miles of scrub pine were burning out of control and every fireman available on Long Island & in New York City was already there. The local news stations were asking for volunteers among able-bodied men and we guessed we were their guys since neither one of us had to work. Daybreak we headed east on Sunrise highway both wearing our camouflage jackets. On the 20-mile drive there I saw sections of pine bordering the highway suddenly just burst into flames a hundred feet high. The radio was explaining that this was because the pines were so dry and when an ember hit them they were like kindling but I have never seen anything like it before or since.

Somehow and I really don’t remember, we ended up in the middle of a very large open field with the woods burning around it. Smoke made it impossible to see much further than a hundred feet. Above us was a blue and white helicopter which I at first took to be a police helicopter but it was too big. It looked to be one of those luxury models. It wasn’t moving and just hovered about five hundred feet above us, the backwash from its propeller clearing my field of vision to it. A white Bronco driven by a very hard looking man about the same age as us pulls up from out of the haze and the guy, with an exasperated look on his face, starts talking to me like he knows me. He gestures with his chin up at the helicopter and says “that’s Pataki up there in the helicopter” then he drove off looking disgusted. George Pataki was the governor of New York at the time. A figure emerged from out of the swirling smoke wearing what looked to be a long flowing kimono like they wore in ancient China. He was oriental and looked to be a hundred years old. He got to about forty or fifty feet away and our eyes met briefly. I could see in his eyes a look of disappointment like I had betrayed him. Then he looked down again. The helicopter was still overhead and the smoke abruptly lifted so I could see for a couple of hundred yards. At the outer perimeter of my field of vision about half a dozen more figures, also wearing flowing gowns were slowly making their way toward the oriental Methuselah in front of me. The helicopter took off and so did Joe and I making are way back to the car which must have been a mile away. I don’t recall us ever having done any work or even how we knew where the car was but it all seemed normal to us. On the drive back we never even discussed the oriental people dressed up like they were from the eighteenth century. When I did finally think about it when I got home I told myself a Chinese restaurant must have been caught in the fire. Even though I knew there were no Chinese restaurants in the middle of the Pine Barrens…

I was still troubled a day later when I attended a lecture above Total Health. I didn’t even know who was giving it I just needed to get away from Patchogue and those people. The look the Asian Methuselah gave me still haunts me till this very day. It was a small crowd, maybe two or three dozen people. The classrooms above Total Health didn’t fit much more. Preston Nichols just strolling in was pretty much the equivalent of Paul McCartney popping into the local pub. People like Nichols, Hurtak and Hoagland were booked in the lecture hall around the corner. I wouldn’t know if they charged. But nobody had seen him in a while and everybody wanted to know what he’d been up too, so the podium was immediately yielded to him. He was wearing a cast on his arm and began with a yarn about how they had tried to assassinate him with a pulse beam weapon causing him to crash his car. He seamlessly shifted to the fire, all the while looking at me while he was talking about it; saying much of the underground beneath the Brookhaven lab had been taken out in a military action by the United States that had declared war on the rest of the world. After the lecture, I pulled him aside and told him what had happened. It was the first time I ever really talked to him in private. He told me that he had always suspected that I was part of the Montauk Projects and that he thought he knew me but it was useless to try to remember what you had done on another timeline because the laws of physics made it impossible. After that, we started to talk in earnest.

He started to come around Total Health far more often after that. Above the classrooms on the third floor were offices that we would hang out in. One night M. was up there with us while he and I discussed what really could only be described as a paranormal storm that settled over Long Island. With Amityville, what I had seen in East Islip twelve years earlier in 1983, what I had taken part in in eighty-nine and now La Bonne Vie and the condos off Waverly in Patchogue I pretty much had figured out by then that I was in the eye of the hurricane. I asked him, the guy who claimed he was shooting down UFO’s off Cory Beach at night, whether he thought there was anything we could do about it. He starts talking about some Orgone machine he had built based on the orgasmic energy concepts of Wilhelm Reich and looking at my wife and I like this is what he had been waiting for. Then he says “you two can close the portals with it but I will have to be in the room to operate it while you have sex.” She suddenly sprang out of her chair at him screaming in his face “you fat fucking pervert!” Then she bolted out the door, down three flights of stairs and out into the middle of traffic where I had to chase her and carry her back to the sidewalk.

Considering whom my wife was, a second-generation strip club entrepreneur, her mother had started as a barmaid in a Babylon strip club and ended up owning her own in Miami, I had seen M manufacture cups of urine in the bathroom and sell them to patrons for a hundred dollars to be greedily consumed at the bar, this was not an appropriate response. Especially since her and I had been practicing sexual Magick since the first time we slept together. M was also by her own admission, at the very least, a second-generation Witch, not a Wiccan either. From what she had said to me in trances, she was a Daughter of the Owl, the spawn of Lilith herself, but according to M she never remembered what she said or did in trances.

During that year alone in the Condo we had opened up portals repeatedly, paranormal phenomena so real I had ejaculated blood. Another time the condo shook so bad we had to call up my mother to come get the girls out of there. It went on for hours; like a train shakes a subway platform but without the noise except for the rattling of household items. When my mother got there, we sat on the couch for a while and watched the cat chase weasel like shadows around the room. My mother who had never seen anything like it before saw that neither M nor I was alarmed, other than me wanting my daughters out of there. She asked me whether the source of the disturbance was me or the house. I couldn’t answer her, but I knew it was a little of both.

M and I had opened a portal one night which illuminated the far side of the darkened room in a deep purple hue. We were both overcome with ecstasy in its presence and I wanted to go into it and see what was on the other side. But M. ran in the bathroom, turned on the light and started gouging her arms with a nail file and sneering at me “it’s too late; you’re not coming through. It’s closed.” It was too; it was gone by the time I disarmed her. Afterward she claimed to remember only the part about opening the purple portal and the intense euphoria emanating from it. But her arms were scarred for weeks.    

Besides I can’t even count how many times I had stopped M from dragging various characters into our bedroom, not always successfully either. The fact that Preston Nichols had even brought something like that up to us, of all people, was enough to sell me on the idea of trying it. I have never mentioned anything like the account just given, to Nichols or anyone else. Nobody knew what we did, let alone my mother and her friends.

When I had met M. back in eighty-nine her hair sprawled below her ass and had the disconcerting habit of slowly rising straight up when she channeled an entity purporting to be Lilith. In the darkness you could see tiny blue sparks dancing from static electricity as her hair rose into a halo over her head. Mirrors were used to communicate with praetor human intelligences in alternate dimensions. I had watched M argue into those mirrors most unflatteringly about me like she was with me because she had to be, and she didn’t like it.

One afternoon the sun was shining through the windows on a brilliant summer day the room abruptly appeared to grow ten times brighter than it already was. M scrambled over me and jumped out of bed. She had a panicked look in her face. With her palms upturned and her arms slightly extended in front of her toward the mirror on the floor, she said "But I didn’t tell him anything!" The light in the room grew even brighter and she fell to the floor. Her eyes rolled back showing only the white. She began to froth at the mouth. I jumped out of the bed to help her. All the while the light grew blindingly bright. I was suddenly seized by overwhelming fear. I ran out of the apartment and down a flight of stairs to the door of another apartment. I banged on it and a woman about my own age answered. I was naked which did not at all seem to surprise her.

She ushered me inside, opened the door to her bedroom and went in shutting the door behind her. She came out repeating the procedure of closing the door behind her and gave me a pair of sweatpants. She asked me what had happened. I told her my girlfriend was having a seizure. She went in her bedroom and closed the door. She came out a couple of minutes later, closing the door behind her again and told me she had called the police and they were coming. She told me to just wait there. She then went back in her bedroom and shut the door again leaving me in the living room by myself. The whole situation unnerved me all over again and I bolted from her apartment. I ran down three flights of stairs and into the street and began running north on Peninsula Boulevard. I jumped on the roof of a car that was passing me and held on. The car accelerated up the road till it came to a light where it had to stop. I jumped off and kept running north. I repeated the procedure a few more times till I passed Southern State Parkway, about four miles north of where I started. Finally, a van-style ambulance pulled up with a six-man emergency crew.

The guys convinced me to let them take me to Mercy Hospital right down Peninsula Boulevard. On the way there they complained of being interrupted from their weekend barbeques. They told me my condition was the same as they had seen in some Vietnam Vets. I said, "I’m too young to have ever been in Vietnam." One of the personnel said "let us just put this wet washcloth over your eyes. We have found that light exposure will trigger the panic. It will relax you." They put a warm wet washcloth over my eyes. Having the light shut down from my perception relaxed me a great deal. They took me from the ambulance by gurney into Mercy Hospital to a small emergency room where I was the only patient. They repeated the same procedure with the wet washcloth. I heard a voice saying, "does anyone know who was with him when this happened."

A frantic effort ensued in the seemingly makeshift emergency room to locate my point of origin. In about a half hour M arrived. She was dressed very sharp. She walked in like she owned the place, calling me by pet names she had for me as if nothing unusual had happened. She told she had been looking all over for me then she turned to the two doctors that were there and said, "is he alright to go?" They answered in the affirmative and we just left. I never saw a cop. The same thing would happen a few weeks later at Sayonara Hotel on route 110 in Amityville, again there would be no cops and just an ambulance ride to a half hour stay in Brunswick Hospital.

Even with M hurling herself into traffic and carving herself up in the bathroom I still didn’t get it. I did not know about the supernatural woman called liliyyoth in the Great Isaiah Scroll. I only knew of Lilith who ruled over Arabia as the Queen of the Night. But I have learned all about them in last four years

The Norse knew them well and knew they were part of the wave function. They knew “wave-maidens are desirable but Dangerous” The Norse knew that among them "Woman begets with woman" (15) and Girl with girl begets a son.”(16) They knew “those women do not have husbands” (17) because they prefer their men dead.

A Valkyrie, there are seldom second dates

The Valkyries only come for warriors slain in battle and a Norn attaches herself to a man in his cradle and cast her spells on him till his grave. I have known their Queen since I met her in East Islip in 1983 when Project Phoenix culminated with a hole being ripped through the space-time continuum. (18) The National Socialists knew her as Maria Orsic and her entourage as the Vril Girls; they are shape shifters. The Lords of the Black Stone or the SS knew her as Ishtar and it was as Ishtar she was known in Babylon. She has had many names. Long before she introduced herself to the SS, the Norse called her Freyja. She is different from the other Norse gods. She is a Vanir, a sorceress and the spirit of nature...

© Jack Heart 2017


5 - Circle of friends Causa Nostra: Arcanorum. Causum Nostrum - the living order book , verse 5. 2005 http://thuletempel.org/wb/index.php?title=Isais-Offenbarung

6 – Ibid.

7 - Nichols, Preston , and Peter Moon. "The Montauk Project / Experiments In Time." I - the Philadelphia Experiment. Sky Books, 1992. Web. 14 Mar. 2017. http://www.stealthskater.com/Documents/Montauk_04.pdf .

8 –VIII - The "Phoenix Project" absorbs "Project Rainbow." Ibid.

9 – Ibid.

10 – Ibid.

11 – Ibid.

12 – Ibid.

13 – Ibid.

14 - Burrows, Hannah . "Enigma Variations: Hervarar saga's wave-riddles and supernatural women in Old Norse poetic tradition ." www.academia.edu. University of Sydney, n.d. Web. 14 Apr. 2017. https://www.academia.edu/2542398/Enigma_Variations_Hervarar_sagas_wave-riddles_and_supernatural_women_in_Old_Norse_poetic_tradition?auto=download .

15 – Ibid. Hervarar saga, st. 65

16 – Ibid.

17 – Ibid.

18 – Jack Heart: הוד / Majesty, Part 4, Chapter 16:  Excerpts: http://jackheart2014.blogspot.com/2016/10/majesty-those-that-would-arouse.html

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Valkyrie - https://vikinglegends.files.wordpress.com

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Peter Pan Meets Pyramid Head III by Jack Heart & Orage

First published Friday, May 5, 2017, in the Human.

It all came to an abrupt ending in the summer of ninety-six. On the weekend of my birthday, we were with Joe and Laurie, and we had taken their camping trailer out on the beach at Smiths Point. Laurie’s Joe was friends with the government security lady. He had the keys to her condo, which he spent a lot of time in when she was away. He was very different from military Joe and although he wasn’t a big man; right beneath his warm and friendly veneer there was something menacing about him, much like myself at the time but with Joe there was an undertone of malice.

He was the only one who would answer me back. One night in the courtyard round about the second or third keg I was accusing them all of being aliens, haranguing all of them for being Wyrdos, M too. None of it was unusual. I didn’t keep my mouth shut about what I saw and heard, leastways not to the perpetrators. As if he had been waiting for it Joe says to me “you’re always accusing everybody else of being an alien. Haven’t you figured it out yet? You’re the alien.” Then military Joe immediately jumps to my defense denying for everything he’s worth that I’m an alien and aggressively admonishing Joe for saying such a thing to me. There were about a dozen other people out there listening to this bizarre exchange intently. Afterwards no one said a thing for the rest of the night.

Joe and Laurie had a three foot Iguana that had the run of their place and M and I had a three foot Savannah Monitor named Gizmo that I had bought as a hatchling before I went away in 1990.  Gizmo lived under the couch; usually…

Joe and Laurie also shared our appetite for cocaine and sex; both were very much fueling the two day party at Smiths Point that July weekend. The night on the beach was one of the strangest of the many strange nights I have known. Around sundown a couple of unmarked black helicopters passed over, going from west to east along the surf line, which was about the length of a football field down from the camper. No sooner had I remarked to Joe about how low they were flying than another appears in the west heading east along the beach no higher than a couple of hundred feet. Joe stepped out from the camper and walked down a ways toward the beach so his silhouette was clear in the light of the setting sun and started signaling toward it like he was hailing a cab. By then I could see it was a brand new Apache gunship painted gun medal black with no markings. It veered up the beach straight at us and settled over our camper so close that the sand from its prop wash was stinging my face. All the while Joe was acting like it was a joke. He continued to signal the pilot who if he could roll down the window was by now close enough to spit on him. After about thirty seconds of this the gunship rose to about four hundred feet and took off to the east.

I don’t remember it getting dark, but I was probably in the camper doing something obscene with M. When we came out there was a firework display on the bay side of the island and a lot of boats had come in close on the ocean side to watch. The barrier beach is less than a thousand feet wide at Smiths Point, so they had front row seats, along with us and everybody else who had a camper on the beach. About a quarter mile offshore, all lit up, was a boat that was close to three hundred foot long. It dwarfed the eighty to hundred and twenty foot party boats that were out there. The water is no more than twenty to twenty five foot deep where it was. I have never seen a boat that big that close to a Long Island beach. I could not see what kind of boat it was. But it was there and then it was gone, I didn’t see it coming in or going back out. When the display was over, we went inside the camper to resume our explorations into the outer perimeters of cocaine intoxication and human orgasm.

When we came back out there was nobody, not a single soul on the beach and the campers around us looked eerily deserted; in fact they looked like the tombstones in a graveyard. The darkness seemed perceptibly tinged with a blue haze and the beach shimmered with a pale white glow. The only sound was the sound of the surf. All the boats were gone except for the three hundred footer. It was now a good three miles off the beach where it would stay for the rest of the night. It was the only other sign of life that night except for the light display that was taking place high in the eastern sky over the ocean. There were so many lights coming and going it could only have been a military exercise. But Joe started insisting they were UFO’s.

He wrapped himself in a beach blanket to look like Moses. He already had the long staff which he had carved from a piece of bamboo earlier. He climbed to the top of the highest dune, about thirty feet and began a sermon about how if we wanted to leave, all we had to do is want them too and they would come and get us. Uncannily, one of the lights broke off as if on cue and started heading towards us. It seemed like it took forever to get to us and as it did the light on it grew brighter and brighter. When it finally got close enough to see it turned out to be a helicopter with a search light. Joe still standing on the sand dune in his Moses attire solemnly pronounced that one of us didn’t want to see it so that’s how we all saw it, as a helicopter. If everyone had really wanted to see it it would have remained a UFO which was really what it was. Everyone laughed uneasily.

We were in an alternate reality, a parallel universe. Back then, we didn’t know what it was called, but I’m pretty sure we all knew we were in one.

There was nobody around, not one of the thousands of people camped out at Smiths Point beach that night was to be seen, not a soul and we knew there wasn’t going to be any either. Feeling sensual in a very dark kind of way, M and I went over the dunes to explore the bay side of the island, among other things. I don’t remember when we took our cloths off, but I remember skinny dipping in the bay. When we came out we sat on a blanket she had set up on a dune. Suddenly, I felt what I thought was a hypodermic needle being pushed into my shoulder. I swatted at it and saw her do the same to her arm. After it happened a couple of more times to each of us I did end up mashing what appeared to be a very large mosquito on my forearm but she and I were just looking at each other. I lived on the water all my life and I’ve been bitten by thousands, if not hundreds of thousands of mosquitoes, never like this. We grabbed up our stuff and ran full speed back to the camper not bothering to put our cloths back on. When we broke into the path between the dunes that led to the camper, I stopped short and so did she. Right in front of us was a ditch big enough to bury the camper in. It wouldn’t be there in the morning but that night we had to go around it to get back. We both saw it, nearly ran right into it.

Somehow I had pulled my shorts on by the time we found Joe and Laurie detaching their Bronco from the camper. Joe was making a joke out of it and saying he wanted to take a ride down to the inlet to see if there were any people left in this world but he was really going and wanted us to come. M suddenly became panic stricken, insisting that I should go but she had to stay there. I ended up riding in the front with Joe while Laurie sat in the back, as we drove the mile or so east down the deserted surf line to Moriches inlet. I can’t recall whether the light show in the eastern sky was still going on, but I remember seeing the lights of the inlet reflected on its black water. I don’t remember anything after that till daybreak, when I was tending a bonfire in front of the camper and trying to make out what kind of boat the three-hundred-foot enigma still out there was. I never was able to identify it, even in the morning light.

It was just a few nights later, M and I were bouncing around the bars on Park Avenue in Babylon with my cousin and his fiancé when we first heard the news. TWA Flight 800 out of Kennedy Airport, scheduled to stop in Paris and Rome, had just gone down about a dozen miles off the beach east of Moriches Inlet. Two hundred and thirty people were killed including a bunch of teenage girls who were going to see Paris for their summer vacation. The plane had gone down exactly where we had seen the light show a few nights before.

What ensued was the largest recovery operation in the history of aviation. Everything they found that wasn’t the black boxes or a corpse went right to an old Grumman facility in Calverton which was the command center for the entire “investigation.” The whole thing was a mega production circus act worthy of Zahi Hawass. The investigation actually included the FBI’s undocumented removal of wreckage from the facility. The facility is practically right next door to the Brookhaven Lab. No plausible explanation for why Flight 800 went down ever has been given.

I was horrified. I actually moved out of the condo and back into my old room at my mothers. When M came over with the kids, I didn’t say what I suspected, I just told her I couldn’t live with the drug dealing and nonstop partying anymore. She stayed that night and early in the morning there was a knock at the door. When she answered it was the police and they had a warrant for her arrest. My sister came in my room and told me. When I went out to the living room to ask questions; I too was arrested. When they took us to booking in Yaphank in the Southwest corner of Brookhaven Township, there were about eighty people in handcuffs, almost all of them involved with Long Islands strip club industry. It was one of the biggest narcotics investigations ever in Suffolk County and our phones had been tapped for years. It may have made the front page for the day but just like all the other news on Long Island that summer it would be brushed aside by the Flight 800 investigation in the days that followed. The cops, many of them in black hoods to cover their faces, weren’t even talking about their big bust, except for maybe the asses on some of the strippers they now had in handcuffs. All they were talking about was Flight 800. Because I had nothing to do with their drug ring and they didn’t even know what they were charging me with, I wasn’t worried. They certainly didn’t have me on a wiretap, I never sold any coke. Because of what I had seen on the beach days before Flight 800 went down, I listened to their chatter intently.

The consensus among the cops was it had been terrorists and it was being covered up to avoid an international incident. Many of them had been the first responders out of Yaphank; the precinct that covers Smiths Point and Moriches Inlet. I heard them saying that a speed boat had come in from offshore and picked up something at Moriches Inlet then made its way back offshore in a hurry and shot the plane down with a hand held anti-aircraft missile from about seven miles off the beach. They had it all on radar. The speed boat then simply vanished from the radar screen. The cops were speculating that it may have been picked up by a submarine. They had been told not to talk about it by the FBI but a couple of them seemed to be going out of their way to talk about it, in front of me…

M had been charged with two high felonies and she had been bailed out the same day by her father. I was charged with purchasing forty dollars worth of cocaine on the phone from Carmine; an E felony only to a cop with a vivid imagination and a district attorney fresh out of law school. It would eventually be plea bargained down to a fifty dollar fine, but in the meantime nobody bailed me out and I had to spend the weekend in the Riverhead correctional facility. It all got just too Wyrd when they put me on the tier with John Ford; the guy who had tried to poison Suffolk County’s political bosses with radium. When I found out who he was, I told him I knew Preston Nichols and he looked like I had just kicked him in the nuts. His whole body sagged and he turned a “whiter shade of pale” as they say. He said nothing to me for the rest of the weekend. Indeed, he would not come out of his cell after that. I was bailed out Monday morning by my sister.

Unfortunately, children grow up; my daughters did. One became a vicious money grubbing yuppie and the other followed in M’s family tradition of dedicated service in the strip club industry. When the bodies of strippers and call girls started turning up at Gilgo Beach, one or two snatched from right around the block of a club she worked at, I spent many a sleepless night. I had a friend, my best friend since I was eleven years old, probably the most feared assassin to ever stalk the underworld. Some of his early work with the neighbors in a house in Amityville, the next door over from the one we both grew up in, and I suspect as one of the Son of Sam shooters, is very well known. He’s dead now, so I can say it. I hadn’t seen him in twenty years and from out of the blue he called my mother’s phone early on a December morning of 2011 and left a long drawn out message on the machine about how a friend of mine had just committed suicide and he figured he better call me and tell me before I heard about it on the news. It turned out to be one of my wholesalers, the biggest landscape supplier on Long Island and a major player in its real estate game. He had just purchased a twelve million dollar home and nobody could understand why he had just blown his brains all over his car in an east end park, right before a lunch date with his best friend. I couldn’t figure out how my friend had known about it seemingly almost before it happened and why he had bothered calling me after all those years, on my mother’s unlisted number. I’m not that sentimental and he of all people knew that.

In the ensuing days it would come out among Long Islands politically connected that the father, who had started the landscape supply business, a man I had known since I was eighteen, was being held by the police. The rumor was, bodies or pieces of the bodies connected to Gilgo Beach were being dug up on the father’s property. The family owned chunks of Brookhaven and the good part of Riverhead. Long Island’s rag of a newspaper had even printed something to the effect that the father was being questioned by police but quickly withdrew it with a disclaimer. The whole thing was covered up. As noted on the investigative journalism show 48 Hours by the mother of Shannon Gilbert, the murdered call girl whose disappearance led to the discovery of her own and eleven other bodies around the Gilgo Beach area, Long Island is “an evil dirty place.” What she said about Oak Beach applies to most of the east end. “It’s isolated. It’s desolate. It’s a rich community. You’ve got doctors and cops and very very wealthy people who live there. No one’s ever going to think that that’s a bad dangerous area. But it is.” (19) Shortly after making that statement on National TV she would be murdered by her other daughter, Shannon’s sister, who is said to be insane but appears perfectly normal in the show. Her murder effectively ended the media investigation which she had started into the blatant police cover up of her daughters and most likely the eleven other murders. (20)

When I called the number back a couple of days later that my friend had left on my mother’s answering machine I started to tell him what I’d heard about the suicide, which by then was major news on Long Island. He claimed he had never heard of the guy. Having been through that drill before with him, I shut up immediately and never mentioned it again until now. I would find out later that the friend the suicide victim was scheduled to eat lunch with was a friend of both M and my daughter and a regular at the club they both worked at, if not an owner as he claimed to them. He has been very good about severing his ties with my family.

I started thinking after that about how many people had died that this guy may have just found offensive and how they always seemed to be found shot dead in their own cars as if their assailant had been sitting in the car with them. There were the two guys in the Pagans motorcycle gang, the stripper that got carved up in North Amityville, the wrestler at the Crazy Clown, a drug dealer who like the wrestler worked for a mob family he didn’t like, the whole thing about the Defeo’s and the “Amityville Horror” when he was only fifteen and all the urban legend whispered among the Amityville locals. Even the cops were afraid of this guy. I’d seen it myself when we went to the funeral of the wrestler with M. Suffolk County homicide, legendarily brutal cops with a 95% confession rate, stammering and groveling in the middle of the funeral parlor, while the widow tearfully begged him to help them…

That was just what I had seen happen around me. He didn’t advertise and never ever admitted to anything. I knew how he did it; he had done it to me, right after the two incidents with M that featured me being hauled off in ambulances in the summer of eighty-nine. A few weeks later I had gone to Cypress Hills with a friend of mine we called Whitehead. Back then, you could buy an eighth of an ounce of premium coke for seventy-five dollars on the corner there. You didn’t even have to get out of the car. When we came back to Babylon, we went to another friend of mine named Geirs apartment. I needed some space from M, it wasn’t so much all the supernatural stuff. I found that fascinating but there was someone else I was in love with, little did I know then that she was M’s friend in the mirror…

I needed to think, but cocaine sure wasn’t going to help with this one. I had another panic attack in Geirs apartment. I was screaming and yelling, and I broke one of his windows. I grabbed a knife from the kitchen, and they wrestled it away from me. I accidently got stabbed through an artery in my bicep. Unless pressure was applied to the wound it spurted blood three feet out every time my heart pumped. We wrapped it up, then I continued with my insanity. The fact that neither one of them ran out on me attests to a superhuman fortitude on their part. The police never came and the landlord that lived right downstairs never said anything to Geir that he had a crazy man up in his apartment. It was all very strange, just like the other two incidents had been. Every time they got me calmed down, I would do another huge line and start all over again. Geir, referring to what I could sense was in the room with us, kept saying "did you ever think that all those things were really here and they’re just waiting for you to die so they can get to you." I said "Geir, on the day my soul leaves my body they will be running to the furthest reaches of hell to hide from me. You just don’t get it. I want to die. This way I can get even with them, and I don’t have to deal with these two bitches anymore!" There was a knock at the door, and somebody came up the stairs. I do not know why, but for some reason I could not see who it was. They put a wet washcloth over my eyes and whoever it was held me from behind. He was much stronger than Geir and Whitehead combined and Geir and Whitehead were both very strong men. He was much stronger even than me. Sometime during the night, even though I was wired out of my mind on cocaine, I must have passed out. When I awoke that morning sunlight was streaming through the window. Whitehead and Geir were both passed out sitting up on the sofa. I woke them both up and asked them who had come over to help them last night with me. Neither one of them would answer but I knew who it was. There was only one person I knew of who was stronger than me. Try as I will, even to this very day I cannot remember ever seeing his face that night. He is the one who taught me about Aleister Crowley. His people were all high-ranking German freemasons on his father’s side. In fact his grandfather whom I was always told came over as a refuge from WW II looked a lot like the man in the picture of Dr. Heinz Schlicke… Sometimes in order to maintain ones roots in “the world of the living,” as Don Henley calls this, it’s necessary to compartmentalize the experiences you've had outside that world and lock them in the back of your brain in a neat little box labeled Do Not Open. That’s the difference between those who remain paralyzed for life from PTSD and those who have learned how to forget and are seemingly “normal” after undergoing traumatic events.

I had already been writing for a couple of years on Open Salon (OS) and people like John Blumenthal, one of the premier authors in America and editor of Playboy Magazine for a score of years, had told me I was good at it. I had been toying with the idea of writing a book but never of opening the little box. I was going to write about the strip club scene circa turn of the twenty-first century when I had done security for the owner of the Café Royale; probably the finest strip club in New York at the time. At least that was the consensus among its customers, strippers and the weekly featured national porn stars. There would be sex with stunningly beautiful woman and lots of funny stories about gangsters and celebrities. I figured I could make some money now that I knew how to type, which I had painstakingly taught myself to do on Open Salon while being tutored in the art of writing by some of the best in the business.

I had forgotten about the twentieth century. I had to, if I wanted to live in the twenty-first. I had lived fifteen years in a world that I knew wasn’t real. But as Bob Dylan noted in Tangled Up in Blue: “But all the while I was alone the past was close behind…”

By the end of 2011, my daughters were grown; I drank too much, ate too much and did too many drugs. I had three or four different prescriptions just to get to sleep at night, not to mention a hip that needed replacing and at least a half dozen other old wounds that gave me trouble. I made good money doing landscaping, but after thirty years there was no more future in it for me. Quite desperation was the best I could hope for. I had forgotten all about the little box. When my friend dropped back into my life after twenty years with his customary homicidal greeting, I began to remember. I started thinking, why not write the book? Everyone else writes a book. Why not write the book? I went to go see him and run the idea by him. I would never do it without his consent. His first answer was a resounding no, but when I explained to him the circumstances of our impeding old age, he lightened up. Although he still didn’t think it was a good idea. I don’t think he could get past the half dozen or so unsolved homicides he knew would come up, besides all that old stuff about the Amityville incident. But by the time I left, he had grudgingly consented. In the months that followed he did a complete about face and started calling me up and telling me what else to put in it; including an all night bar fight at the Coaches Four with the notorious Pagan Vinnie Gamblers old crew. That was his idea. I had already begun with two apocalyptic brawls involving the Pagans. I thought throwing in a quaint little getting to know you fistfight was too much, but he insisted. Now I think I know why. Vinnie and his girlfriend; Grace the top billed stripper on the circuit in the late eighties, would have prominent parts in the narrative. I didn’t know that when I began the book. I had played the Fool through the whole thing. All I knew was I was giving an eyewitness account of the Babylon Working and I only knew that because Preston Nichol’s had clued me in years after the fact. But my friend knew, he had always known, probably since we were eleven years old…

After the Vietnam War, the Pagans –many of them combat veterans of Nam– had taken over Long Island’s underworld, if not Long Island itself. The papers were full of their exploits. The police had at one time attempted to interfere with one of their funeral processions which were always over a hundred bikes long and guaranteed to halt traffic three towns away. Two yahoo cops pulled it over resulting in a beating for every cop on the east end of Long Island dumb enough to respond to their call for backup. I don’t remember how it turned out legally for the club. I was a kid at the time, but I do remember that the two cops had to be put in the Federal Witness Protection program. Even the Hell’s Angels gave the Pagans a wide birth. The Angels had a really happening clubhouse in lower Manhattan and the run of all NYC, but no Angel would dare step foot on Long Island during the seventies and eighties. It was rumored that Mick Jagger refused to use his multimillion dollar mansion in the Hamptons, because the Pagans considered him a Hell’s Angel. They had a clubhouse out in the Hamptons, but their capital buildings and the place from which they ran Long Islands thriving strip club industry were two bars; Gaslight and Bogart’s right across the street from Babylon Town Hall. Various Norse occult insignias were emblazoned on the backs of their jackets, yet when I met her at the bars I didn’t get all this. Like I said, the Fool, but my friend was with me. He had arranged the whole thing, he got it. He was a German… 

He’s been dead a couple of years now. Seven of the main characters in the book have died since its completion. The last one was Grace who died abruptly in England right after we published the first part of this essay; Peter Pan Meets Pyramid Head. All have died unexpectedly, some “overdoses,” some for no apparent reason at all. They ranged in age from late forty’s to mid fifties.

By the end of 2012 the book Those Who would Arouse Leviathan was done. If you believed what’s in it, and back then I still didn’t, it’s the most important thing ever written. Personally I just thought I’d written a best seller, as I’d intended from the start. Now I wanted the money. I read everything I could find on writing a query then I wrote a better one and sent it to all relevant publishers and literary agents in hard copy; along with a synopsis and partial manuscript, as required by individual submission policies. It cost me a few hundred dollars but I figured after the initial expense I could sit back and sell to the highest bidder. All I got back was the self addressed stamped envelopes requested in some submission guidelines for responses. They were stuffed with a form letter politely saying that my manuscript wasn’t for them. I suspected there was something very wrong, what I’d written was an instant bestseller and I knew it. But when the post office left a note on my door to come down and pick up a piece of certified mail I was certain the worm had turned. What I got back was my partial manuscript, synopsis and query, certified mail at the publisher’s expense. This is unheard of in the publishing business. The publisher would go broke in a month. Unwanted manuscripts and submissions are discarded. No one takes money out of their pocket for an unsolicited submission except the party doing the submitting. In the packet was an interoffice memo from the office of literary agent Suzanne Gluck to the legal department of the Morris Agency, in reference to my manuscript, stating “I just wanted to make sure we have a record of receiving it. Please let me know if you have any questions.”

My friend wanted me to self-publish. John Blumenthal told me the same thing. He told me that with the effect the internet has had on the publishing industry that was now the best way to go, you retain all the rights. That’s what he had just done with his latest novel Three and a Half Virgins. But I’m not a famous writer like him and I had no intention of peddling my own book. I still don’t. By the summer of 2013 assorted gremlins and spooks had begun to tumble out every window I opened on the internet. From the things I saw them doing, manipulating Facebook like it was some kind of video game and indeed the internet itself, they were professionals of the highest caliber. They were showing off and briefing me in the same motion, all the while pushing me to write for Veterans Today (VT). By then I had become well acquainted with the Glen Greenwald crowd from OS and their myopic view of a world that doesn’t extend beyond the “teachings” of Noam Chomsky. They had no idea how the world really works. Most of the writers on Veterans Today didn’t either, just filling in Jew when they couldn’t figure something out. But Gordon Duff, the senior editor of VT, was different. He knew “the News” was just a euphemism they use for the pig slop they feed to the farm animals. He sometimes used his position as a journalist to accidentally on purpose blurt out the truth. Usually, it would be in interviews that were quickly removed from the internet but not before I heard them. From what I heard I knew he had seen what I had seen and I hadn’t been able to say that since I met Preston Nichols. After polishing it up a bit I submitted a term paper to Gordon Duff for publication in VT that I had recently written on Afghanistan in order for the vicious yuppie to get her Business Associates. I explained to him in the email I sent it with that intelligence work was not really my forte, but I knew more about the occult than any man would ever live to know. I told him I would write a multi-part essay for him on the prophecies that are driving the world’s current events, events which are otherwise impossible to understand without knowledge of those prophecies. He didn’t even ask any questions. He just told me to go for it…

While writing on OS, I had published The Cross, the Rabbi and the Skinwalker towards the end of 2011. In seventeen thousand or so words I presented irrefutable proof of a massive academic conspiracy to cover history up rather than teach it. The information in that piece immediately went viral. Scott Wolter, whose evidence for the authenticity of the Kensington Rune Stone a tablet that puts the Norse in America hundreds of years before Columbus, was prominently featured. He found himself the host of a new TV show, Unearthing America, months after its publication. Ancient Aliens was plagiarizing whole sections with impunity, at least until Phillip Coppens, the show’s star “researcher,” died of galloping cancer at the end of 2012. They say the extremely rare cancer that afflicted him; Angiosarcoma, is commonly found only in dogs…

For Gordon Duff, I would write Behind the Bush, Aleister Crowley, Yeats, the Anti-Christ & Armageddon close to thirty thousand words which I broke up into nine parts. For the first five parts I relied heavily on the information in the Skinwalker piece to prove that Synarchism existed long before Alexandre Saint-Yves d'Alveydre coined the word in the latter part of the nineteenth century to describe rule by secret society. The Brotherhood of the Snake, what would now be referred to as the Illuminati, is referenced in the earliest known form of writing, the cuneiform tablets of ancient Sumer or Babylon.

Parts six to nine contained their deepest darkest secrets, which I know because I lived them. For them I needed look no further than my unpublished book. Everything that was in parts six to nine is in the book. I figured if I am a good enough writer, and I know I am, I could force the book’s publication by using the Internet to create a demand for the information. After working day and night for two months straight I finally finished at 4:30 in the morning on a Sunday and immediately forwarded the first five parts followed by the last four to Gordon Duff. It wasn’t five minutes before part 1 was on VT, as if he had been waiting for it. Three hours later it was viral. When I read the VT version, there was a hyperlink on the words Brotherhood of the Snake that wasn’t in what I submitted. The link went to a journal titled Contact, The Phoenix Project Journal, volume 33; number 5 issued August 22, 2001...

See the source image

© Jack Heart 2017         


19 - “The Long Island Serial Killer – Uncaught Psychopath Terrorizing NY (Crime Documentary) (0:16).” http://www.cbsnews.com/news/48-hours-uncovers-missing-escort-shannan-gilberts-final-minutes/.
20 – Ibid: whole episode.


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