All paid subscribers will receive a complementary kindle edition of the book, sans kindle.

Like nomads we walk the earth
without a home, never to love, never to feel, and never to fear death because
we know our souls are older than death itself. Empathy is a strange and alien
emotion to us. If you can feel it for the few then you cannot feel it for the
many, not as acutely as we do. We are Allogenes, strangers in a strange land,
come here for a moment, one moment of truth. Miss it and we will have lived in
vain. This is the story of how we missed ours. Metaphorically this is a story
of how C. G. Jung and Al Capone went out clubbing and found Aleister Crowley
tending bar with the Goddess on the dance floor. But do not be deceived this is
the story of the human soul… 

Authors
Forward: Those Who Would Arouse Leviathan

By
Jack Heart

We now interrupt your reading for a shameless commercial
announcement. 

My book is  

AVAILABLE! 

Buy it NOW! 

 https://www.amazon.com/dp/B08R29HHQR?ref_=pe_3052080_276849420

I wasn’t really crazy
till I found out I was sane. Back in New York they called me Crazy George. That
was about ten years after the facts. It was around the turn of the twenty-first
century when they tagged me with that. The Sopranos got a character; George
Esposito named after me. I remember when the impetus for that occurred.
Somewhere back in the early two thousands an old time “Good-fellow” named
Capuluiso, the cousin of slain godfather Paul Castellano, died. I was
good friends with his son George so even though I didn’t know him out of the
obligatory respect I attended his funeral in Brooklyn and signed the mass card.
The whole cast for the Sopranos were there, which I found tacky from the
get-go. When I was invited to be introduced to them, because of that and the
fact that I consider them all a walking talking racial slur to Italian
Americans I not so respectfully declined.

I remember watching the
Pagans motorcycle gang and Michael Franzese on the investigative discovery
channel and wondering why it wasn’t me. I know Michael from way back, I know
his friends, and I know his friends friends. And they all know me. Just like I
know the Pagans and was intimately acquainted with their legendary “Bubba,” a
man who would have scared Jesus Christ himself. Michael was the son of Sonny
Franzese, a legend in his own right. A lot of these Italian dudes will play off
their father’s reputations, some will even tell you who their father is before
they tell you who they are, but Michael wasn’t like that.

It was somewhere around
the turn of the twenty-first century and it was a slow night at the Café
Royale, one the New York City areas top three strip clubs at the time, along
with Scores and Gallagher’s. Michael had come in with his whole crew and that
was about it. About a dozen of them were drinking at the bar. I was standing at
the door being assaulted by a bevy of scantily clad woman. Who wasn’t going to
make enough money to cover the sixty-dollar house fee, who wanted to go home
early, and who didn’t want to work with me because my friends scared the
customers away. It was one of those nights where I would be lucky to break a
hundred dollars myself. I wanted to go home early.

About a half a dozen
cars pull up in the parking lot by the door filled with young Hispanic men
dressed to the nines. Knowing Hispanic street gangs were not allowed in the
club, outside of course some OG’s from the Latin Kings whom we treated like
royalty to keep the rest of them out, one guy did all the talking. I told him
we couldn’t let MS 13 in the club, and he tells me they’re not MS 13 but a
rival gang at the time named neta neta. I’d heard of them and I wasn’t
impressed but he takes out a wad of cash that must have been about five
thousand dollars. He tells me they got no guns, and they are there to spend
this money. A couple of the girls were standing at the door watching this, so I
went and talked it over with them. I had to let them in now. If no one made any
money it would really be my fault. I told them they could come in and wanded
them with the hand-held metal detector for guns, which true to their word they
didn’t have.

I told them I didn’t
want any trouble and the first sign of it they had to leave and sat down at the
bar with them. If looks could kill the looks my lone bouncer that night was
shooting me from the mezzanine would have killed me on the spot. At first everything
went smoothly, and they were spending money faster than the barmaids could pour
drinks. But they were getting loaded and dancers were trying to roll them. By
then I knew what was coming. One of them gets in a heated argument with a
dancer and I told them it was time to go. They weren’t having it, so I grab two
of them one in a headlock in each arm and start dragging them towards the door.
My bouncer came flying down from the mezzanine and does the same. The rest of
them start pulling out carpet razors. I stupidly didn’t check them for knives.

That was when Michael
and his crew got busy. One kid James could throw kicks like Jean-Claude Van
Damme. He had a body like him too and was about six foot four. The girls used
to love to ogle him. He decks about a half of them with his feet. X-ACTO’s were
clanging all over the floor; I would pick up about a half dozen later on. When
we got them outside Michael pulled his gun and saw to it that they drove off
without further incident. Michael was a standup guy, and he didn’t need his
father. But I had seen and done things a decade before that would have turned
his shock of jet-black hair white and everybody knew that about me.

A year or two later I
had to stop working in strip clubs when a drug dealer I was extorting broke my
jaw. He cold cocked me when my back was turned, it was the first time I’d been
knocked down by a punch in my life, at least when I wasn’t falling down drunk
anyway. I still got up and fought him to a draw but having my jaw wired for
weeks forced me to admit I was getting old. Unfortunately, children grow up; my
daughters did. One became a materialistic yuppie, a card carrying Khazarian
princess. The other one followed in my ex-wife’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 Johns 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 in 2011. John left a long drawn-out
message on the machine about how a friend of mine had just committed suicide
and he figured that 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. Jimmy
Bissett 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
John 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, including its
famous aquarium. Newsday, 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.”1 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 appeared perfectly normal in the
show. Her murder effectively ended the media investigation which Shannon’s
mother had started into the blatant police cover up of her daughters and most likely
the eleven other murders. ⁽²⁾

When I called the
number back a couple of days later that John 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 Jimmy Bissett
and he didn’t know what I was talking about. 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 Jimmy Bissett was scheduled to eat lunch
with was a friend of both my ex-wife Michelle and my daughter. He was a regular
at the club they both worked in, 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 John 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, Sleepy Joe the 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 Michelle and I went with him to the
funeral of the wrestler, who was Michelle’s boss at the time. I saw with my own
eyes Suffolk County homicide, legendarily brutal cops with a 95% confession
rate, stammering and groveling to John 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
Michelle that featured me being hauled off in ambulances in the summer of
eighty-nine.

But 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 the turn of the twenty-first
century at the Café Royale. 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 OS 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 over twenty years in a world
that I knew wasn’t real. But as Bob Dylan said in Tangled Up in Blue: “But all
the while I was alone the past was close behind…”

By the end of 2011 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 John dropped back into my life
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 at
his junk yard over by Bissett’s Nursery 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; Gracie 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 Nichols, the progenitor of the Montauk Projects, had
clued me in years after the fact. But John 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 overzealous cops pulled them 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 Pagans flagship clubs I didn’t get
it. Like I said, the Fool, but John was with me. He had arranged the whole
thing, he got it. He was German, and much later when I read Miguel Serrano a
few years ago I would find out what I had lived through twenty-five years ago
was the religion of the Nazis…

John’s been dead a
couple of years now. Many of the main characters in the book have died since
its completion. The last one was Gracie who died abruptly right after Peter Pan
Meets Pyramid Head was published. 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 was done. If you believed in what’s in it, and back then I still really
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.”

I’d used peoples real
names in the book but by then I knew there were problems with the book that
went far deeper than liability. They’d already started working me on the
internet. I was being briefed into the fact that there is no reality, and
events that occur in waking moments, at least for some, more resemble The
Illuminatus! Trilogy than a John Steinbeck novel. Those events that we
see, they manifest themselves in the world around us, and all the little pixels
euphemistically known as people. What is implied in the book is all true and I
would find out, long after writing it, when I was instructed to read master
occultist Miguel Serrano by a famous Moto-Cross athlete that it is the secret
religion of the Nazis.

That would explain my
relationship to Preston Nichols, the progenitor of the Montauk Project in the
nineties. Before Hollywood invented The Matrix, there was the Montauk Project.
It is the mother of all conspiracy theories, and the name reversed was even the
original title of hit TV show Stranger Things. 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. Nichols knew things and
he said far more than he wrote. One of the people he said them too was me.

I had been away for a
couple of years. When I got back in 1991 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 mother’s 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 talks about on
TV.

Marty and my mother
were very close friends with Dr. J. J. Hurtak the man who was covertly calling
the shots, on 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 that 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 pigeon Hebrew and his
“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. Back then as he was now Preston was morbidly obese and dressed like he
was trying to define the word nerd. Yet the night he walked into the Bogart’s
club 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 centre 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 my
father used to help operate was to the west of the lighthouse. 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 that dish 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 Michelle’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 Iceland in the early
sixties. By the time he blew his brains out in the late nineties because they
had amputated his legs for medical reasons he swore he could see the mothership
waiting for him in the night sky over Patchogue. Michelle’s whole family on her
father’s side was military. The grandfather was the patriarch and he
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 and finally he had to come home to die. He
thought his son was a blithering idiot, but he couldn’t wait to see his great
granddaughters. 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 for central Long Island 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.

I was always looking
for explanations for what I’d seen back in eighty-nine. I’d 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 centre 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 from La Bonne Vie.
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 home within an
hour or two. 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 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 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 right off of Waverly Avenue. If
things had been a little strange at La Bonne Vie and they were, this
place made it look like Mayberry. About a week after we moved out of the place,
two years later, we sat at the bar of Kabuki, Babylon’s best Sushi joint at the
time. We started talking to this other young couple and when they found out we
had just moved out of there they couldn’t wait to relate their own experiences
when they lived there. The place was three stories, with the attic supposedly
off limits. But the couple was constantly disturbed by loud noises coming from
their ceiling. They lived on the second floor as we did. When he went up there
to investigate he found three kids growing pot up there that threatened him to
keep his mouth shut. Deeply disturbed by this encounter they broke their lease
and moved out.

I suspect that is an
implanted memory. While living there I was attacked by globules of light in my
sleep which were driven off. I found out from Preston Nichols that there had
been a UFO crash that same night at the nearby park to the east, of course
covered up by Brookhaven Lab. I went there and saw the downed trees for myself.
My Rottweiler would frequently stand at the top of the stairs and growl down
into the empty darkness below. I was just sitting on the couch one day when an
ashtray on the cocktail table went flying across the room smashing violently in
the next room. No one touched it, no one was even near it. 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, practically a subsidiary of the Brookhaven Lab and Long
Islands notoriously shady power suppliers at the time, prowled the grounds
non-stop with hand held 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. We were all in our
early thirties and late twenties and there was an attractive woman, the same
age as us that lived alone. Her I never talked too 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.

There were all night
keg parties in the courtyard and on sultry summer day’s family outings to Cory
beach in Blue Point. Preston once told me how he liked to go to Cory beach at
night and test out his homemade Orgone energy 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 which was the only time I went down there. I remember a scorching
summer day we spent there that is still vivid in my mind. It was one of those
days where the heat actually turned the air hazy and the bayside beach 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. Michelle 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 nor 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 that
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. 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…

It all came to an
abrupt ending in the summer of ninety-six. It was the weekend, and it was my
birthday. We were with Joe and his wife Laurie. 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 strange, Michelle
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 Michelle, 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 which 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. But to quote Jim
Morrison from Strange Days:

“Strange days have
found us
And through their strange hours
We linger alone
Bodies confused
Memories misused
As we run from the day
To a strange night of stone”

Around sundown a couple
of unmarked black helicopters passed over, going from west to east along the
surf line, which was about half 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
Michelle. 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 feet deep where it was. I have never seen a boat that size 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. 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 an Old Testament prophet. 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 Jeremiah outfit solemnly pronounced that one of
us didn’t want to see it so that’s why 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.

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, Michelle 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. Michelle suddenly became panic
stricken, insisting that I should go but she had to stay there. As we drove the
mile or so east down the deserted surf line to Moriches inlet I rode in the
front with Joe while Laurie sat in the back. 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 that boat, even in light of morning. A few
nights later, Michelle 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.

I was horrified. I
actually moved out of the condo and back into my old room at my mothers. When
Michelle 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. I knew them all and almost all of them were 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. I knew I had nothing to do with their drug ring, in fact I hadn’t
even known it existed. 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 intently to their chatter.

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.

Michelle 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; 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
weird 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 in the song. 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.

I was 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. 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 into one as he did that night 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 where
they would lecture to over a hundred people. 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
which 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 Michelle was up there
with us while he and I discussed what really could only be described as a
paranormal storm. With Amityville, what I had seen in East Islip twelve years
earlier in 1983, what I had taken part in eighty-nine and now flight 800 and
the great fire of ninety-six I pretty much had figured out by then that I was
in the eye. 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 it was a completely over the top reaction. She 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 club in Miami. I had seen Michelle manufacture
cups of urine in the bathroom and sell them to patrons for a hundred dollars to
be greedily consumed at the bar. Her response was particularly inappropriate
since her and I had been practicing sexual Magick since the first time we slept
together. Michelle was also by her own admission, at the very least, a
second-generation Witch, not a Wiccan either.

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 Michelle nor I was alarmed,
other than me wanting my daughters out of there. She kept asking me whether the
source of the disturbance was me or the house. I didn’t answer her.

Michelle 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 Michelle ran in
the bathroom, turned on the light and started gauging her arms with a nail file
so that I had to physically stop 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.

Many times, I had
stopped Michelle from dragging various characters into our bedroom. 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 but for reasons that
became apparent only much later, years after I had written the book, Michelle
wanted no part of it.

John would die suddenly
and later in 2016 at Jacksonville the woman I was staying with from the DoD,
Ingo Swans successor in the military application of remote viewing, would
insinuate that the leader of the Gilgo Beach serial killer cult had collapsed
and died in his driveway. She accused him of being a stupid brute but her and
her friends were yet to be put in their place and besides, I had often thought
the same thing about her. The murdered call girl Shannon Gilbert’s Asian driver
had taunted her while she was on the phone with police and cowering behind a
couch sobbing that they were going to kill her. He asked her if she had ever
watched Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas. The movie is based on a book by Hunter
Thompson. It references the harvesting of Adrenochrome from dead babies and
its use as an agent to contact interdimensional entities. It’s all right there
on the twenty plus minute long 911 recording, a confession from right out of
the mouth of their paid coolie as to just how far elitism has been carried in
the twenty-first century. But maybe that’s why the police are withholding the recording.
Long Island is an evil dirty place. “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…”

John had been urging me
before he died 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 wasn’t a
famous writer like him, and I had no intention of peddling my own book. I
started writing on the internet and my first serious piece; Behind the Bush:
Aleister Crowley, Yeats, the Anti-Christ & Armageddon, went viral. By the
end of the summer of 2013 assorted gremlins and spooks had begun to tumble out
of 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. As time went on they
showed me other things, things calculated to let me know they were masters of
this reality and the news was just stuff they invented to give the “Untermensch
their daily dose of opium.” What is in the book is their bible and they are not
about to let their farm animals read it. They have dogged me for seven years
now, but I am one of the two main characters in the book and I say there are
plenty of Dogs left out in the yard to take it and run with it. As Jim Morrison
said “Calling on the Dogs, calling on the Gods…”

The Rest of the Book is  

AVAILABLE HERE! 

Buy it NOW! 

 https://www.amazon.com/dp/B08R29HHQR?ref_=pe_3052080_276849420

Citations

1- “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/.

2– Ibid: whole episode.