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...
© Jack Heart 2017
Citations
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.
