This book is dedicated to the sleeping masses, who believe all of the fabricated crap that the nearly totally owned Zionist media tells them. Half of them don't even know what the Talmud is, much less what it says about them. Anyone who is unaware of just how stupid the mass of the population is, needs to go to YouTube and watch Jay Leno's Jaywalk. It will tell you all you need to know. Yes, this book is dedicated to all those who have helped to make conditions the way they are in this world today; who have made life the unpleasant, embarrassing and toxic festering mess that it is. Congratulations, this book is for you.
This book is also dedicated to that small minority of unsung heroes, laboring under the radar all over the world; all those who refuse to give up, who refuse to embrace the darkness, but who, instead, struggle upward toward the light, past every obstacle and barrier. May the beauty that is within you one day shine like the sun in the sky, for the edification of all the generations to come.
And finally, this book is for you, Svargo.
This book has been in the works for years. It has even been finished for years, but simply not transcribed from notebook to computer. There were many times when I came at it with a new burst of enthusiasm, only to be knocked back and told in no uncertain way that it wasn't time yet. For some reason, I can't simply do things on my own, according to my timeline, according to when I want things done. I apparently dance to a different drummer who is time specific about all things that concern me and what I do.
For a while, I was writing songs and recording them and releasing them. Then, six years ago, somebody threw a switch and I wasn't allowed to record any more, and now I've got at least seven albums lined up over the airport, hoping to get the go ahead to go ahead and land. Twice I had a hard drive malfunction and the only hard drive affected was the one that had my music files. Yes, I lost quite a bunch of work but I managed, with a great deal of work, to lay my hands on a copy here and there and cobble the rest together.
Those of you who are familiar with me know that God is the centerpiece of my life, no specific God, rather several faces of God that appeal to my appreciation of God; The Amitabha Buddha, Lord Ganesha, Lady Nature, Tara, most especially Lord Vivasvan, the present sun regent in Lord Surya's seat. It is my belief that there is one God with many faces. Those of you familiar with Joseph Campbell and Carl Yung will find parallels in their work to what I am saying here.
I catch flack from Christians, even though I quote that master more than anyone else. It doesn't matter. I could care less. My relationship with my 'invisible friends' is a reality. They hang around me (on occasion) and they most definitely speak to me every day. I should drive harder to make the contemplation of God more pervasive in every hour of my conscious waking state. I try, but 'the world is too much with us'. It will come. It will come.
I know that people find it hard to reconcile my love for God with some of the things I say and some of the positions I take. This book is a good example. I suggest you read the books of Robert Svoboda. They explain a great deal about people like me. Those with narrow perspectives, religious tunnel vision, are purposely and sometimes cluelessly unaware that both God and his/her followers are much more complex and vast than their imagination can possibly portray. We are all here to “work out our own salvation through fear and trembling” or... in whatever manner works for you. There are many roads up the mountain but once you get to the top you can see all the ways down.
This book is controversial. It could also be more complete and fleshed out, especially at the end, but this is how it rolled, so this is what we have. I am unaware of any novel ever that has done what I attempt to do here. You will see what I mean once you read it. It might cause a severe flack blowback, but all of it is true. Claims made in this book that relate to persons and events with which you are familiar are just as they are portrayed. I can prove what I say here. I can prove it with the sheer weight of circumstantial evidence, which is overpowering, and by other means as well. I don't care what the counter argument is and I don't care what names I get called. What I say is true. You may not like it. You may resemble it, which would explain your resistance but... the time has come for these things to be said. We are in the Apocalypse and Mr. Apocalypse is perambulating with his walking stick. He is going to up the intensity soon and up it again after that. Prepare yourselves.
I don't know what more to tell you about the book, except to also say that all of the characters in the book certainly exist out there, and the descriptions of the proclivities and behavior of the bad guys is definitely spot on. I pray that something very much like what is described in this book comes to pass and washes this planet clean of these pestilential influences or most anything, really, that does the trick. This world could be a garden, instead of what these miscreants and their obliging Nodwell sycophants, as well as the slumbering public masses, have turned it into. We who labor in the promise of a coming dawn must keep our shoulder to the wheel and remember that 'perseverance furthers' and not forget... it is always darkest before the dawn. I don't know how true that is weather wise but I suspect it is true existence wise.
I'll close this introduction by paraphrasing something that Omraam Mikhaël Aïvanhov once said;
“When God wants to wake you up, he first comes and gently shakes your shoulder and says, 'Wake up'. When you do not wake up, God then comes and shakes your shoulder significantly harder. If you still do not awaken, God picks up a two by four.”
I hope you enjoy the book. Nothing went in there by accident.
I'm going to tell my story, for myself, or for someone as yet unknown; just let it come out how it wants to. It won't be the whole story. Telling the whole story is not possible. No one could tell the whole story. No one knows the whole story about anything. Just imagine trying to describe even the moment you are in. Immediately there are things that would be beyond the reach of words. Then, if you were to describe the objects around you, if you were in a room, it might then occur to you that each object had its own story; a personal history. You would soon be out of your depth before you have even gotten to yourself and the myriad connections in space and time that are as defining as your appearance and actions. Even if the story took place in your mind, the entire world would still be there. No, we can tell only parts of the story and let the imagination do the rest.
Life and its presentations are enormously complicated. A host of mental disorders are spawned from a preoccupation with minutiae. You have to concentrate on the point you are trying to make. I'm not Proust, dipping biscuits in tea.
I've got some time on my hands. Unless I hear The Whine, I've no responsibilities of any kind. This does give me a unique freedom denied to many. In telling my story, I hope to understand it better. Should it reach other people, it will soon be of interest in the wider world as well. This kind of story has all the elements that generate interest in the wasteland of unexamined lives. And there are so very, very many of you. Never have there been as many of you as there are now.
I will write this with the idea that someone else is listening in or perhaps will soon read it. I have the sense that this will happen. It makes it more of a confessional and suits my purposes, as much as I understand them, better than another format.
Soon, after you have some idea of what I have been up to, you may think that I had best be careful about the possible physical evidence of what I write down; the possibility that I can be traced or identified by events or locations. I've no worries on that account. I will be general where I have to and specific when I can and I don't think it would matter much, even if I were known, because I have never been known. The mask is seen but the real face is hidden; hidden even from myself. I don't anticipate exposure. I am private and careful; private by nature and careful without thought. Often it seems as if some other intelligence is on hand to guide me in my actions. I am reminded of so much that might have gone forgotten in the critical moments.
Over time, I have gained some control over The Whine but I did not know its origin for some time. I have learned to surf it like a storm-fed Hawaiian wave. It has become easier over the course of opportunity. Have you ever been enraged beyond control, or driven by purpose so focused and powerful that there was no possibility for reflection except in the aftermath? Can you imagine what it is like to host something so powerful and all-encompassing that you are nothing more than a witness to its efforts, within you and upon the outer world? I know well the compulsions in others and the arcane manner in which these forces travel through strange humors and intoxications, into terrible combustions. I have studied these things first hand and seen things that neither you nor intelligent professionals have ever seen. Professionals witness the aftermath. They study the evidence but they have not seen the thing in process. I have seen it directly and from a distance within. I have looked at the face of nightmare and watched the awful rage and the surgical detachment. I know how it is with 'them'.
It could appear to some that with this manuscript I am seeking celebrity for my actions. I am no Jack the Ripper. I simply feel the need to tell my end of it now. It is curious because I have never felt this before. What has until now impacted only upon the lives of certain individuals and those that they might have harmed, is now going to impact upon the wider world. The end result may in some way change the life of everyone now living in one way or another. Some record of the truth should exist, alongside the speculation and myth that is sure to follow.
Ironically speaking, there's that chance that someone will know what it is I am dealing with and clear it all up by posting something on The Net. Sure, “wish in one hand and shit in the other” as they say. Maybe that which impels me to act in my fashion, now also impels me to do this. It may be some factor in a wider purpose. Call it a confession. Call it what you will.
I'm not after fame or notoriety. I already have that. Even though no one knows that it's me. I'm making an impact in the right circles. Telling my story is really about catharsis and clarity. A part of me feels like I will understand so much more once the story has played through other minds. I feel there is a telepathy that links the human race. There is a greater summing up, as our individual thoughts add to the collective body. I can tap into that. I am very good at tapping into things. The impact of these thoughts can only do me good; can only help me to a greater understanding. I'm not in conflict about any of it. I'm not at war against some greater driving impulse. I go willingly enough without regard or regret. It's just that I don't know why. I don't know if I'm reading everything accurately. It feels like something I'm supposed to do. At the heart of this is my need to know. I have never understood what has happened; is happening. I see the good of it, even though uninformed moralists may not agree. But I do not know who I am. I do not know why it is me who was chosen. I would like to know these things. That knowledge will not compromise my participation.
When he was asked about his music once (I don't remember the context now), John Lennon said, “I'm a musician. I could bang two trashcan lids together and make music. It's what I do.”
What I do is kill people, all kinds of people. I have killed men and women, old and young, rich and poor, all this without regard for race, creed or national origin. I've killed a musician; a farmer, business people, lawyers, a preacher, a multilevel marketer, a butcher and a baker (but no Indian chief, so far), a politician, a pimp, a biker, an infomercialist, a landlord and a plumber. Surprisingly, I have killed no banker yet, but there is at least one on the list. This particular banker and his sidekick are often on my mind. Sometimes it seems as if I live their lives and the lives of their associates, as much as I live my own; what little I have in the way of a personal life.
I'll get to them when The Whine tells me to. I make the present count at 36. This is my first effort at recording any of it, so we have to trust to the power of my memory, which, if I say so myself, is much better than average. All the people I have killed shared one thing in common; something, someone, didn't like them and they deserved to die. This involved an application of that Texas standard; “the sumbitch needed killing” law. Though not an actual law, it does exist and has been accepted and applied on various occasions. Some would say that was a feature of the Kennedy assassination.
Right about here, I can feel certain minds saying, “What gives you the right to determine whether someone should die?” That's a fair question. Something or someone gives me the right and since I, in fact, do carry it out then I must, in fact, possess that right. Is this not so?
This all comes back to the fact that it is impossible to tell the whole story about anyone or anything. Trust me on this, if you knew what I knew, if you were as compelled as I am, I do not think we would be all that dissimilar. Because you were not chosen to do these works, a great deal may seem foreign to you. Wait until I am done before you render your verdict. Let me add, in addition, that though events and personal claims of ability may seem outrageous and unbelievable, they are all true and stated without embellishment or taint of pride in respect of them. I am simply recording what has been and what is to come.
These were not good people. Most of them I did not meet until our only meeting, but, on occasion, I observed them from afar, within the theater of my mind and sometimes in dreams. You may think my responses, in any case, were a supreme overreaction. There is a great deal more to me and my process of selection than can be so simplistically dismissed. If I killed all the people who provoked occasional dislike and annoyance in me, the number would be much higher. I'm not a big fan of the human race. I hope to go into that at some point in my tale.
Let me just say for now that all of the people I killed were devoted toward causing Suffering in others. These people generated Suffering. Suffering, like Happiness, has an infectious quality. It spreads. I can feel Suffering. I can see Suffering. Often, the aura of Suffering will pulse, like an aura over a small town as I pull into it. I possess perceptions that would be called paranormal. I often know what people are thinking. I know when someone is approaching my location, well before I can hear them normally and regardless of their intention. A psychiatrist would look at this and diagnose some form of paranoid schizophrenia. Sure. However, the “proof is in the pudding.” I am still moving freely about and have avoided confrontation and possible capture many times. I see, as I continue, that my narrative skills are not technically precise. I have a tendency to wander. I am not a professional writer. I ask you to be forgiving of my limitations in this area. I will do my best.
Suffering affects me in the same way that some people are affected by a set of fingernails dragging down the surface of a blackboard. I can enter some larger communities only through a great concentration of Will. Luckily, that concentration is not my own. I feel the tension of the personal against the greater impetus by degrees. I wonder if some part of me fights against my actions and the pressing of The Whine. When I have located and dispatched a specific source of Suffering (for which I was sent), the subsequent change in atmosphere is wonderful; overwhelming, really. I feel sometimes as if a soft summer rain were misting and falling all around me. I notice a lightness of step and mood in the people I pass on my exit. There is a definite sea change. I am of the opinion that I do good and necessary work.
I'm rich, well off from inherited money; not super rich, but the kind of rich where I can go anywhere I want and stay as long as I like. I can't indefinitely maintain a string of luxury houses and boats, planes and retainers, but I don't want any of these things. I've got some toys and I can travel first class. I don't live conspicuously by nature or design. Personality wise, I am a very adaptive sort, easily integrative into the local coloration. I can wear a suit. I can go about in jeans and sneakers. I automatically adapt myself to the level of my company. My early drama training and ability as a mimic come to the fore on demand. In all honesty, I have to say that I don't feel any different acting out or being myself. I don't know who 'myself' is anyway. Is it me in the day to day or me on a mission? Once again, it doesn't trouble me. I'm comfortable in my skin. I don't know why things are the way they are, why I am the way I am... but who does?
Physically, I am a little over six feet tall and weigh right at one hundred and ninety pounds. At the moment, I am halfway through my forty-first year. I've been told I look like Keanu Reeves. I imagine this appearance of vulnerability serves me well. People don't run from me, though later they may have wished they had. Women like me. I think they get the impression that I'm a decent sort. I am a decent sort. Outside of my work, I would say that I am pleasant and easy to be with. I've been told that I have an appealing and ironic wit. Now I am smiling. I can see that I repeat myself but I am just discovering how to do this; tell my story, and I expect I will get better at it as I go. I always seem to get better at things. It could be that that is a common human trait.
I look like one of ten thousand men on the streets of any city or town. Besides the mental (psychic?) abilities, I do have some other characteristics; I am physically very powerful and I can move very, very fast. It seems like I have a more direct connection to the atavistic self than most people. I've noticed something similar in the men of the South Pacific islands. They are not much removed in time from the primitive life and I think that accounts for it. I don't know how to account for myself. I work out. I stay in shape with the martial arts, as well as rock climbing and hiking into the wilds, but that does not account for the strength. I can rip a quarter in half and lift the front end of a car off the ground. Quite possibly I could lift the car entirely off of the ground. There seems to always be more strength than what I actually use. This isn't something that only comes about when I work. I can do it any time, so it's not some sort of psycho-physical, adrenalin thing.
One time, I threw a bowling ball through a living room wall and it had to pass through someone's head on the way. Sexually I have remarkable stamina. Well, strength and stamina are not the same thing but I have no doubt there's a connection. I don't seem to lose vitality, even though my interest is often less than I would suppose it is in another. Maybe that is the key. Sometimes it seems I am doing it the same way that a child will sit rocking in a chair for hours. I'm just doing it because I'm doing it. I don't like orgasms and I rarely have them. Usually when I cum it is in my dreams and I am with someone fairer than anyone I have known in this life. In my dreams, I meet many people in a great intimacy of heart and mind. Then I wake up and I am here again. Moments before, there had been a closeness that only long association and a special sympathy could provide. My actual life is nothing like that.
As I have already stated, I'm not troubled by what I do but I often wonder if I'm not missing some basic human quality. Other people don't follow an unpleasant whine that ends in what would be called murder. I know there are people that kill professionally. I've often wondered what they might have done without the official sanction of their work. I am here referring to soldiers and others in some line of government employ.
For years I've been a serious practitioner of meditation along Zen Buddhist lines. Now I can hear someone saying, “Don't the Buddhist's subscribe to a non-violent harmlessness toward all creatures?” Yes they do. And didn't I say, “Along Zen Buddhist lines?” I doubt that most of the people who read this have spent anywhere near the time that I have in the study of Eastern philosophy. If so, you would find that there are exceptions to everything and that 'everything' is included.
I consider myself in line with that certain aspect of the Eightfold Path that refers to following a 'right livelihood.' I believe that whatever you were meant to be is what you were meant to be; not so much that we are all fixed in fate but more as if what we are is what we chose to be for a specific reason, across the course of a great distance in time and determined long before we got here. I also think that you should be the very best you can at whatever you are. I think there is a redeeming feature in dedication, even if it concerns actions considered evil by the larger body of humanity.
I think most people are doing something besides what they really want to do. This comes about through familial and social pressure. Fear and confusion also play a part. Conditioning accounts for most of what most of us are. Most people are cowards in search of a safe harbor. Because they are not engaged in their true dharma, they slowly eat themselves up from the inside. You should be the best at what you do. I am. I am the very best killer I can be. I think of myself as a sort of cosmic policeman, a soldier on unusual assignment, cut off and separate from the greater body of troops but driven by duty to the success of his commission. A large number of people, especially the people of today, hold soldiers in contempt. The soldier often gives his life for people who would rather not know what he was about. I am reminded of Kipling's poem “Tommy.”
Well, there is a lot of dark and dangerous work on this planet, and all the people who do it are not heroes, but some of them are. And they are heroes all the more since their work may never be known, understood or appreciated.
I believe that I am a warrior on special assignment. My superiors know and approve, because they know all the whys and wherefores of its ultimate value. The man in the street doesn't know shit. In the Bhagavad Gita, Krishna says “There is nothing better for a warrior than a righteous war.” So I think of myself as an honorable warrior, a man of Bushido, in a private and very necessary war.
The first person I killed was a plumber who worked at our house. My family home was a secluded estate in the north-east. When there was a problem with the plumbing, we called Mr. Trent. This wasn't his real name, but it will do for the purposes of the story. I saw him maybe half a dozen times before the event. Often, his wife would be left sitting in the truck that was parked in our driveway, sometimes with a couple of children in the back.
My parents were away a great deal, especially as I grew older. As I grew older and more capable, when something needed to be done around the house, it was often me who arranged for it from a list that my father had placed on the wall by the phone in the kitchen. When it was a plumbing matter, I called Mr. Trent. It never occurred to me to call someone else. His was the number by the phone. I was twelve years old when I first dealt with Mr. Trent and sixteen when I killed him.
My parents loved to travel, also on inherited money. Our family had originally migrated to America on one of the early Pilgrim ships. There was a good amount of money that came available through assorted trusts of long standing. Once I became able to handle the ordinary responsibilities of the home, my parents took it as a sign that they might travel at will. I would say that a good portion of my life from the age of fourteen onward was spent alone. There were initial checks from associates of my father, but afterwards, with no concerns or events, these became increasingly less frequent.
During his visits, Mr. Trent would share with me his insights on life; The World According to Mr. Trent. You can go into any neighborhood in the world and find you a Mr. Trent. They come in all shapes and sizes and represent all economic classes. The Mr. Trents of the world know all there is to know about the niggers and the spics and the slants and an awful lot about faggots and dykes. Mr. Trent had a master's degree in the subject of a woman's place and knew the necessary steps to take in order to maintain it. Mr. Trent also had a clear and definite knowledge and command of the subject and application of child rearing; simple, direct and effective. While sharing his views with me he would often add in conclusion, “Well, you're young and haven't seen anything yet, but later you'll see what I'm talking about.”
Amidst the clanging of wrenches, Mr. Trent would punctuate his tales and teachings with regular sips from an old metal Thermos, whose contents were referred to as 'Trent's Blend.' The occasional wafting aroma indicated that Trent's Blend was composed of whiskey and coffee. I had these occasions to be with Mr. Trent (or whomever might be doing work at the house) as a defense against theft. Our home was filled with many precious things that my parents valued. I suspect Mr. Trent might have known why I was present during his visits, but it never became the subject of conversation.
On most of the occasions when I saw Mr. Trent, he was in some stage of intoxication. He was a short, squat, burly man, with a round, flat face. He possessed a broken nose and mean little eyes that were always darting about. They mostly looked toward you but seldom at you. He had powerful shoulders and arms. His head sat like an off balanced pumpkin on very little neck. He had dark curly hair crawling everywhere except on his head.
When I saw Mrs. Trent, I saw a sad, disappointed woman, with downcast frightened eyes. Once I took her something to drink and found that half her face was a purple bruise. On another occasion, I saw a young boy with angry welts traced up his arms and bloodstains on his Snoopy shirt. Mr. Trent had obviously been about his instructions.
Trent would often observe me when he was sure that my attention was elsewhere. Even at that age, I always knew when someone was looking at me. I could feel it the way you could feel someone touch you on the shoulder. He had that sly cunning of the emboldened alcoholic. He was a man false to the core, offering a fraudulent aura of kinship, although he resented and despised you. I could see him as a classic footpad from some centuries past, always quick with a “Yes, your worship”, bound by a certainty of ways and incidents toward the gaol and the gallows.
I know what Trent thought of me. He thought of me as a rich kid faggot. I dressed too well. I was always alone. “How come you don't have any girlfriends around this place? This place is a guaranteed pussy magnet. You like girls, no?”
“My girlfriend is away at school. Sometimes she comes home for the weekend.” In fact, I had no girlfriend at the time, but I wasn't going to tell Mr. Trent that. My solitary nature made the act of having a girlfriend a difficult venture. I did not socialize much. I read books. I didn't know at that time that I was a telepath. I just felt uneasy around people. Later, a great deal was clarified in that regard and once I had perceived what was taking place, I was able to tune this power to a remarkable degree.
In these earlier times, I would often be filled with an insane rage that would overtake me like a sandstorm in the desert, blinding me, while it howled through my body. I remember standing in the train station in Baltimore. I was standing in line, waiting to purchase my ticket. My suitcase was in my hand. Suddenly, a red haze enveloped me. It felt as if my body had caught fire. I recall that the old woman who had been standing behind me asked if I was all right. I am very grateful that, until I gained control of this feeling, there had never been a public acting out. I'm grateful that in the first events, I was unobserved and left no trail. Later, when I was storing my suitcase in the overhead rack, I saw the imprint of my grip, deep and clear upon the metal handle.
As time passed, I learned that these fits came about through telepathic invasion. The airwaves of the world are filled with hateful messages and energies moving through the slipstreams of consciousness. Our minds are like airports from which planes arrive and depart twenty-four hours a day. Before I had an air traffic controller in place, I was subject to anything that wanted to land. I should go into this a little. First, there are all the thoughts that are moving about at any one time. Some of these are old thoughts and some are quite large and have the energy of a great many people attached to them. This energy is supplied from the sub-conscious, where our racial, national and sexual fears are located. They feed our prejudices and apprehensions; often we are unaware of them. Even though they do not originate with us, we can make them our own through identifying with them. They are always around.
There are the thoughts that are generated each day by aggregate humanity; judgments made on appearances, reactions to situations, personal attractions and repulsions, thoughts generated by appetite as well as daydreams.
There are high and noble thoughts that radiate from an archetypal location in the human psyche. I believe these are the result of beings from a higher plane or the results of inspiring art, philosophy and religion.
There are agenda driven thoughts that are broadcast consciously toward the control of humanity by certain cabals. These thoughts are also mirrored in the media controlled by these cabals. I have been very general and brief here. There is a great deal more to all of this but I plan to return to the subject now and again.
Before I had control of what came into my mind, certain thoughts would enter at will and set off a terrifying reaction. That is how I understand it. Once I became aware of what was happening, some amount of discipline came into play. The thing I cannot always control is my reaction to this high, thin whine; the astral, dental drill that tells me someone is causing Suffering. When I capitalize 'Suffering', I am referring to something more specific than the 'suffering' in which everyone has a part. 'Suffering' is the result of one individual's efforts to make one, or many people, suffer as much as is possible. I mentioned 'the cabals' who broadcast specific thoughts to specific ends. The whine caused by them is greater than any other. One of the chief proponents of this is a New York banker, who is associated with a former high-level politician. I'm going to get them. But it won't happen until the whine tells me to.
Early on, I was often the victim of violent thought. A great many of the violent actions that occur in the day-to-day are caused by these thoughts entering the unaware and unwitting and provoking them toward an end. This is amplified when that person is drunk, otherwise aberrant, or already in the mood from some prior event. You would be most surprised to learn how often this 'hijacking' occurs.
Finally, by an intuition, I obtained a Navy watch cap. I made a composition from pencil lead and aluminum solution. I soaked the cap in it and when I put it on my head, the loud rush of voices, as perceptible to me as the sounds of a subway station at rush hour, were diminished by a factor of ten. This was a great help to me, until I was able to insulate my mind from the inside. It was the practice of certain meditations, taken from Eastern thought, that have made my journey more bearable. Even so, some places are always hard for me to enter. In this regard, The Whine always prevails.
I can imagine people in the future, reading about the aluminum and thinking about tinfoil hats. The truth is, there's something to it, believe as you wish.
The Whine and the cry of Suffering transform me into a homing pigeon. I cannot fight it. I have no control over this driving instinct. I will suddenly find myself on some beltway outside of a large metropolitan area, being drawn into the cauldron, or on a country road, following my personal GPS. I will often not remember how I came to be there, or the steps through which I passed.
It is fascinating to me how I can be steered through thousands of voices, some of whom I can feel are also worthy of a visit. But I am drawn past them all, to the door of my appointed client. By now, it seems increasingly clear that there must be an intelligence that routes my way. Why these specific individuals? I have happened upon some who are surely deserving of a transition from this plane, but the whine that I hear does not speak of them. Within this sound that I hear is a video-like stream of images that tells me what has been and what should be. I have found myself stopping at a hardware store, or a sporting goods shop, to procure the tools necessary for the particular client, doing it all without calculation or thought.
I call it a 'whine'. It is like a hum too. It begins at a low register. I feel warmth in the area of my groin. As it moves up my body to the back of my head, the pitch steadily increases. It is like a police siren winding up, with the exception that when it reaches its height, it remains. I know that place well by now. It is at that point that I park my car, or get off the bus, or pause in my stride to look about me, knowing that I am there.
Perhaps you have thought at this point that it seems careless of me to purchase a weapon, or associated utensil, in the area where I do my work. When I am inside The Whine, when The Whine is inside of me, it seems to affect my appearance. It makes it hard for people to look at me. It scrambles ordinary memory. It alters perception. I have seen the composites that went around, after I had finished with someone. No, I don't need to worry about that. I'm on a mission for a higher good. Someone has got to take out the trash. Whoever it is that made me the way I am has got some 'juice' at the level I need it. My papers are in order, so to speak.
On the day that I saw Mrs. Trent's face, I experienced one of my fits. I had no reaction when I saw the little boy, though it was a combination of the two that triggered my visit with Mr. Trent. I should clarify at this point that rarely have I been motivated by outrage or compassion for the victims, even though my work would indeed remove the cause of their unhappiness. I don't care about the victims per se. Until recently, I've never really felt compassion, pity, or empathy. I had an idea of what they are but I didn't understand the need for them. They seemed to be an unnecessary luxury (if you want to call it that) that inevitably leads to entanglement and vulnerability; just like Love and a generous nature. All of these feminine emotions seem to wind up costing more than I would ever want to give. Just the exposure they would create seems suicidal. No skilled practitioner will grow attached to what guarantees a loss of objectivity. In this regard I have been a strict empiricist.
The human animal has this innate weakness, a need for companionship. Biological needs I can deal with and companionship is always available. People exist as types. Once you know the type that works for you, you can pick them out of a crowd. Any one of them is more or less like all of the rest. Have your companionship, talk about the big game, the political situation, compare backgrounds (I have any number of them on call) and become intimate, if the need is there and then go your way. The more time you spend with anyone, the more your subconscious mind interweaves with theirs. Eventually they gain, or insist on, the freedom to make demands, require assurances of comfort, devotion and generally come to see you as an extension of themselves, thereby becoming both a liability and a pain in the ass at the same time.
I've learned that you must gain detachment from yourself and needless empathy for others; become totally objective and look at everything. I've been through Freud and Reich and the rest. I've got enough forensic background and psychiatric inquiry to teach the subject. I've seen what would satisfy the present day practitioner for an explanation, while realizing those explanations do not apply here. On the other hand, there is the telepathy, The Whine, and the physical powers. I've checked them out, rigorously field-stripped and reassembled them (metaphorically speaking), and they are just what they are. They are not 'hearing voices', they are not auditory hallucinations, and they are not a hormonal anomaly. They just are. I'm open to the truth. I believe I will find it one day. I think it is in the resolution of my tasks.
There is this enormous pressure that builds and builds. I wouldn't say that it is entirely unpleasant, but I have no choice except to relieve it, just like a schoolboy must masturbate to free his mind of the memory of a girl's pretty legs and the awesome, imagined mystery at their joining. Unlike the schoolboy, I don't feel any following guilt. If anything, I feel mystically cleansed and deliciously empty. Emptiness is as close to complete happiness as I have ever been. I don't seek happiness; I just act. I am seldom happy or unhappy. I am generally 'somewhere' in the process of the events. But after an event, not only is the whine of the beacon stilled, but all of the other voices and the background hum as well. Usually my mind has the continuous resonance of a low-key cocktail party or a theater lobby; the county fair as heard from a distant parking lot. Aside from the occasional brief distinctive voice, it is mostly unintelligible chatter.
I often carry a small antenna in my hand that I constructed myself. This has proved very useful for gathering the energy that buffets about me. I have a technique that winds the energy around the antenna, the way a diner spins his forkful of pasta in a spoon. Then I can discharge it into the ground, or process it for another application. The background hum, after this brief respite, returns again and sits at its waiting level, until it begins to build again, until the cycle is complete once more.
When I saw the little boy with the welts, I had an epiphany. I was struck down on the road to Damascus. I saw that if I should remove the source of this boy's pain, that the rage in me would leave or be transformed. I knew that this would be so. When I saw the boy was the first time that The Whine came to me and transformed into an action. I had no idea of its origin. A door opened in my mind and I saw through and into a place that I had not seen before. Trent was there, vibrating as a form of energy. I could clearly make him out, even though there were these muddy colors, flashing and pulsing all around him. I knew then that this terrible whine was coming from Trent. Trent and The Whine were inseparable and to silence The Whine, Trent must be silenced too. Early on, the experience of The Whine was very uncomfortable. It caused me an almost unbearable unease and I was often barely in control of myself. It took some doing to bring it all into a manageable state.
I remember running to my mother's bathroom and grabbing a bottle of morphine tablets that she kept there, along with a host of other analgesic exotica. My mother had a friendly doctor. I think it very possible that she was sleeping with him. He provided her with all that was possible for him; Tylox, Demerol, Percocets, Oxycodone and other things. I expect that she was addicted to some or all of them, but since she managed never to over-medicate herself and since supply was never a problem, she never had to deal with its absence. There wasn't a problem, unless you count the sense of distance that showed itself in her manner and communications. I didn't. Distance for me was always a good thing and I am grateful that my mother's emotional and chemical state and my father's self-indulgent preoccupation with finance precluded the usual intimacies.
My parents and I seemed to be moving in different directions at all times. Yet, none of us ever seemed concerned by it or even remarked upon it. If was as if we were on entirely different planets, but due to a dimensional warp, we were able to see and to speak across the distance. Ninety percent of everything I remember my mother ever saying to me consisted of some variation of, “How are you?” “That sounds wonderful, I'm sure you'll do fine.” Or “now if you need anything, or if anything comes up, you call us at this number.” We never once had a discussion of any depth.
My father would ask about school or sports. He might ask if I had enough money. On rare occasions, emboldened by a certain quantity of single malt Scotch, he would share with me certain mysteries of the world of money, until a phone call, or a visitor or my mother took the space.
I am certain now that my parents were grateful for my independent ways, grateful that I seldom had any questions, and for the distance in me that matched their own. Because I was never inconvenient for them, they were more than content to leave well enough alone.
Being alone was a fine gift. I know, for many, loneliness is a terrible state. Some fear it all their life. I have never understood this, because we are alone and one day, for all we know, we shall be alone forever. When I think of being alone, I think of the stars twinkling in the sky. They are each of them alone, yet shining forth with a self-contained magnificence. It's what's inside us that counts, just as it is in the stars. Those who seek fulfillment, or completion in what is outside of them, are lost and have missed the point of the whole affair.
I felt singularly blessed that early on I was left so often to myself. I won't say that I didn't like my parents. We just had nothing in common. I doubt that I was intended. I think I happened and only after I happened did it occur to my parents that they had neither the skills nor the vocation to raise a child. I suspect that my father took surgical steps, following my birth, to make sure that such a thing never occurred again. For the most part, I was raised by my Japanese nurse, Honey. I expect that her real name sounded similar and it anglicized into Honey. When I was thirteen, Honey went back to Japan and she was replaced by a bonded, weekly cleaning service. By this time, my ability to take care of myself had surfaced, and I was remanded into my own custody, so to speak. I missed Honey, but like so many things I lost or never had, the feeling passed.
I imagine my parents said something like this; “Well, let's just see how he goes. If there's no problem, then there's no problem and if there's a problem, we'll deal with it then.” It's how both of them talked. And I never did get into any trouble that got connected to me. My idea of a good time was to go to the library and travel in books. I also enjoyed sitting in public places and watching people, or watching movies on TV. The human condition fascinated me. I'd always known that I was different and so I watched others to learn methods of conforming behavior. What I saw and what I wanted were seldom reflected in the perceptions and appetites of my associates. As time passed, I seldom watched movies; the observation of real life became more and more interesting.
There is a phenomenon that attends my work. It is something I do without planning or intention. It just happens. Once I have isolated the client in a secure environment, whether this involves physical transport, or the certain knowledge that we will be undisturbed, there is a conversational exchange that takes place. This could be brief, or it might occupy a significant length of time. Unfortunately, probably because of my demeanor, the client often assumes that there is a different conclusion in the offing than what is actually going to take place. Hope springs eternal...
Because I am more concentrated at the time on the exchange itself, I do not disabuse the client in respect of his wishful anticipation. Perhaps I think I will learn more from them if I allow for the clutching of straws. I admit to a certain curiosity in the information received, but all the while I am aware of something apart that is watchful and attentive to every word and gesture. Whatever it is, it is analyzing the process. It is prodding and probing to an end. It knows the subject, with an intimacy beyond the subject's capacity. Gradually, it loosens and shifts, measures and weighs. I am reminded of a pathologist, recording his findings and cataloging the evidence. In some instances, the work is remarkably similar, though in my case the subject is still alive.
Another interesting aspect is that during the exchange, there will be noticeable variations in the pitch and volume of The Whine. Sometimes I feel as if I am about to grasp something, something very elusive. Then it slips from my mind like a wriggling fish. I can touch it, hold it for a moment and then it is gone. My personal relationship to all of this seems to be that of an uninformed medium. I wonder at this fact, that I seem to play the priest before I am transformed into the executioner. After all of this time, my greatest sense is that someone other than me is listening in, that someone else is acting through me. It is as if the entire drama were being staged for some unseen intelligence. It feels as if I am like one of those court reporters who stare off into some personal distance, while their hands are busy at the recording device. At times it seems that I am on television, performing for an audience that I will never see.
There are some small peculiarities to my physical form. I don't know what, if anything, they have to do with my unusual state. There is a marked depression in the top center of my head. It is like something a thumb might make if pressed into a ripe piece of fruit. It is a very shallow indentation, but palpable nonetheless. At about C4 in the cervical area of my spinal column, is a ridge of bone that sticks out from my neck for approximately half an inch. It is a half circle, about the same size as a quarter coin might be if it were buried in my spinal column. I can feel a thin membrane of flesh in the center portion of it. I've never heard or read of anything like this and I've no clue as to what it means. The doctor said it was a harmless peculiarity, which did not warrant removal. It's never bothered me, so I ignore it. Otherwise I'm pretty much like everyone else; in physical appearance, that is.
On the day of Mr. Trent's permanent departure, I was in a state of extreme agitation. I thought that I might be going mad. I had taken two of my mother's morphine tablets and eventually they served to partially detach me from the turbulence. It felt as if I was sitting on a cliff above a large waterfall. There was a constant surge of power and noise. At one point, I could feel my mother inside me, more strongly than I ever had. It was uncanny. I was in the direct experience of her feminine nature. I could distinctly feel one of her many hats sitting atop my head. My mother was very fond of hats. And in that moment, I could clearly hear her say, “That's fine darling, I'm sure you look very nice.”
After the initial turmoil in my being, there was a period of calm. I went to my father's Rolodex, where he kept the business cards. There I found Mr. Trent's address. I wanted to arrange our meeting with a convenience for both of us. I knew that we would meet, but not yet under what circumstances. All I knew was that 'something must be done'. I knew too, that the something was for me as well as for Mr. Trent. I had come of age and my work was to begin.
Having found the address, I sat again for a time at the kitchen table, staring out at the gardens that stretched away toward the wood line. I knew that this was a major defining moment in my life. I had not yet consciously decided on a course of action. As I have said, much happens without thought on my part.
I sat at the table, drumming my fingers on the table top. Occasionally, I would sigh, as if releasing, by degrees, some long held attachment. As the minutes passed, my eyes moved over the familiar landscape. While this occurred, I had the sensation that there was no relationship between myself and anything objectively perceived. I felt altered within. It was as if the cognitive 'I' within me had been displaced by another mind, yet it was not uncomfortable.
While I was sitting there, I felt a hum begin in my balls. There was a crawling chicken-skin sensation, as if low voltage electricity were moving over their surface. I could feel them contract and expand. They seemed like living things apart from me. Shortly, the hum moved up into my navel area and then, very slowly from there, it moved to the center point at the top of my head. It felt like honey poured from a jar, as it spilled back over me. The pitch and volume increased and I began to feel powerful contractions in my body. It reminded me of waking in the morning and the involuntary stretching that occurs as consciousness expands into the physical environment. I felt like a cat awakening from a nap. I rose to my feet. My biceps swelled. They felt pumped as they did after I had had a session with the weights. It would have been a supremely pleasant experience, except for the constant presence of The Whine. At this time, in the initial experience, The Whine was a compelling, pressing force. Even with the morphine distance, it was intense.
In times to follow, when I became more familiar with the process, and The Whine had transformed more into an irresistible urge, rather than an insistent violation of space, I occasionally orgasmed in my pants, due to the vibration passing through my scrotum. This passed too, when I became more accustomed to the experience. I compare the vibration that attends the early onset of The Whine to that of a turbine operating at low RPMs. I imagine a woman sitting on a washing machine during the spin cycle or with the handle of a vacuum cleaner pressed against her groin would have similar sensations.
My parents had given me a Jeep for my sixteenth birthday. Twenty minutes later, I was at a payphone near a large reservoir, half a mile from Mr. Trent's home. My every activity and accoutrement occurred and materialized by themselves. Everything manifested in spontaneity and in sequence. I did not know, when I drove off in the Jeep, where I would wind up. I did not know I was driving to call Mr. Trent. Prior to leaving my house, I did not think about putting on the gardener's rain gear and rubber boots. I did not anticipate taking the garbage bags and the dish washing gloves. I did not comprehend the use to which I would put the chainsaw that went into a leather carryall. Something, or someone, knew everything that would happen. I was nothing more than a manifest catalyst.
Let me paraphrase the conversation as best I remember it;
“Mr. Trent, it's William. I have a problem that's come up and I thought maybe you could help me with it.”
“Hiya Willie. What kind of a problem?” (Calling me Willie would have been reason enough for an 'event' were it not already out of my hands) Trent's voice had a lubricious resonance due, no doubt, to the greater ration of post-work Trent's Blend.
“This girl came over to my house. She seemed high on something. We came over here to the reservoir. She wanted to go. I guess she took some kind of drug or something. By the time we got here, she was really high. She took off all of her clothes and is running around in there. I can't get her to leave. She keeps screaming, 'fuck me'. I don't know what to do.”
“Maybe you should fuck her, Willie.” Trent laughed at this and then had a spate of coughing.
“I'd rather do that at my house. She's a nympho anyway.”
“A nympho, huh?” I could feel the increase of interest and thoughts of possibility as they moved through Mr. Trent's mind. “How old is this... girl?”
“I think she's fifteen. I'll pay you a hundred dollars if you help me catch her.”
“Hmmm, that sounds good, Willie.” Here Trent paused and I could hear him taking a sip from his drink. “Where you at?”
I gave Mr. Trent my location and told him I would be up the path maintaining contact with the girl. Once he saw the Jeep, he'd know where I was. He agreed to come right out. I hung up and went to the location.
It was a crisp autumn day. The path was littered with falling leaves and the white skin of the birches danced with reflected sunlight and flitting shadows. It was coming on to dusk. I have always loved the forests. I love every aspect of nature, especially when revealed in an encompassing totality. There are mysteries there that forever elude the empty, incurious minds of the hoi polloi. The seashore and the desert, the mountains and brilliant wet jungles, all give me something I can get nowhere else except in dreams.
The reservoir area is occasionally frequented by fishermen and reservoir employees. Without a permit, there is no access allowed and certainly no hunting. Still, I knew, as I always know, that I would not be disturbed.
I walked some distance into the woods and stopped near a broken blue-stone wall through which the path continued. I took the saw from the carryall and laid it against the far side of the wall, along with the garbage bags. I felt no need to test it. It would start. The contraction of my muscles continued as I studied the landscape. I did not think of Trent or his pending arrival. I was hot in the rain suit. A thin sheen of moisture lay upon my forehead and drops of sweat ran down my ribcage. Several flies buzzed in a holding pattern around my head. I pulled on the gloves.
Trent arrived ten minutes after the call. He must have made haste. I was a couple hundred yards into the woods, but I could clearly hear his truck as it pulled into the parking area below. I heard the door open and then the thunk of it closing. Mr. Trent was now on his way. In the few minutes that it took him to arrive, not a single thought passed through my head. Finally, Trent came around a close stand of trees with his Thermos in his hand. In the other hand was a coil of rope and an old blanket lay folded over the forearm. Perhaps he imagined that he might fuck her on it there in the woods? Who knows? Was the rope to compel her to come with us, or was it part of some other scenario?
If I had asked Trent, I expect he would have said the blanket was to cover the girl and the rope was in case she caused a struggle. I imagine Trent had no clear idea of what events might follow, but only hoped for what opportunity might provide.
I will present the dialogue and action as I remember it. I realize that earlier I said something similar, using the word 'paraphrase' to describe my recounting of the phone call. In fact, my memory is near eidetic. I can remember intricate detail from years past as if it had happened but a moment ago. I do not want to give the impression that I consider myself someone superior to the mass of general humanity. This is not because I give a damn what you may think of me personally but because it would not be accurate. I'm just different. The facts show this. I have never attributed my special abilities to myself. I truly believe some other intelligence comes alive in my consciousness in particular moments, and that it is this consciousness that possesses the supernormal abilities that I seem to exercise. As I've said, it is in the hope that I might learn something more of the truth that I am writing this all down.
I waved to Mr. Trent and he lifted his Thermos to me in a gesture of response. Soon he was before me.
“So Willie, where's the girl, you lose her already?” Then he noticed the rain gear. “You expect rain?” Trent looked up at a patch of sky, as if some clue might await him there. His face was flushed from the whiskey and the activity of his climb. The path upon which I stood runs steadily up hill to the stone wall, where it evens out for a time before it gradually inclines down to the water.
“There is no girl, Mr. Trent.” This comment did not compute for him. His brow furrowed, as he attempted to get his mind around the possible implications of my statement. To Mr. Trent, I was nothing more than a callow, over-privileged youth.
Trent squinted at me and took a sip from his Thermos. “Whaddya mean, there's no girl? Where's the girl?”
I replied, “There is no girl, Mr. Trent, there is only me and you.”
Trent's eyes grew sly. He had no clue really. I can imagine some of what he must have thought at this time. There were never more than a few avenues along which Trent's mind might travel. “Well now, if there's no girl, then why did you get me up here?”
I nodded again, as if it were a reasonable question, and looked directly into Trent's eyes. “I can't tell you exactly why. I'm not sure myself. I know what is going to happen, but I don't know the actual reasons.”
Trent's self-interest began to flower. I can imagine that he saw money, the opportunity to expand his circle of abuse, the potential for control. His face began to take on that aspect that I envision the traders had when they brought the Indians blankets; disease, whiskey and death. Now it was Trent's turn to nod his head. “You want to tell me then what it is that you need and how come you're dressed up in that outfit?”
No way was Trent going to say anything provocative, until he had a clear handle on the situation. He took another long sip from his Thermos and stood there, licking the moisture from his lips.
“I don't know why it is me that has to do it. I can see that it has to be done and I know that I am going to have to do it, even if I don't understand it.” The Whine had climbed to a terrific pitch now and I could feel my body trembling under the vibration. “I feel like there should be something more before it happens, but I don't know what that is right now. You are going to have to die, Mr. Trent. If there is anything you want to say or do, you should do it now.”
Well...this is surely not what Trent expected to hear. First his mouth made an O of surprise. He started to speak and then could not think of a fitting reply. The confusion on his face slowly turned to anger. He walked closer to me and glared at me from his pig eyes. “Let's see if I have this right. You are going to kill me? Some little faggot in a rain suit is going to kill ME?” This last was punctuated with a short jab of his index finger into my chest.
Trent continued to poke my chest with his finger, working himself up into a state of wrath. I could imagine this was a common sight for his wife and children. Mr. Trent, though he outweighed me by twenty pounds, came up only to my chin and for a moment, I was struck by the ludicrous image of someone staring upward at the person they were seeking to intimidate. However, Mr. Trent was a powerfully built man and I am sure that, in his mind, I could be dispatched with very little difficulty.
I grasped the offending finger and snapped it. This turnabout surprised Mr. Trent, perhaps more than anything else in his life until now. Once again, there was this mute O that his mouth made. This time, though, sound very quickly followed after, as Mr. Trent howled at what was apparently a very painful experience. He hopped away from me, holding his injured hand in the air with his other hand and cursing me with a great intensity.
“Well,” I said, “Let's get on with it then.” I walked toward the wall and picked up the chainsaw. Despite his pain, this got Trent's attention.
“What are you, crazy?” He screamed. “Why are you doing this?” Trent began to back up significantly, as I suspect so would anyone in his position. His eyes were darting to all sides. It was apparent that he would soon begin to run.
I pointed the saw blade to the sky and pulled the cord. The chainsaw leapt instantly into life and the sound of it melted into harmony with the whine in my head. The smell of fired gas pushed the sweetness of the forest air into retreat. It was then I felt that concentrated, focused anger that became a trademark of all the events to come. Although I was not myself angry, I could feel that 'someone' most certainly was. I closed my eyes to a red pulsing darkness. I opened them and there was a shimmering red haze in the air. It was as if the anger were both inside and outside me at the same time. The anger found Mr. Trent, and he turned and ran down the path as if his life depended on it, which it surely did.
I went after him then, the chainsaw at port arms, its pitch rising and falling as my finger reflexively pulled at the trigger. Soon, without a great deal of effort, I was directly behind Trent. I waited until he turned his head and then dropped the saw end and neatly clipped the Achilles tendon on his left leg. Trent tumbled to the ground and rolled to a stop, his hands clutching at his wound.
Terror, confusion and pain warred upon his features, as he sought to staunch the flow of blood from his leg. “Please! Please! Why?” he screamed.
I looked down at Trent and said, “I told you, I don't know why exactly. I expect it has to do with the suffering you cause and the noise in my head.”
“What noise?” Trent cried. Tears flowed freely down his face, his features contorted in agony. I did not know how to respond further in conversation. The chainsaw revved and I set about doing what I was meant to do...a thorough job.
It proved to be a very good thing, wearing the raingear and the gloves. It became a very messy business. I now understood the purpose of the garbage bags that I had brought. I stood there for a few moments and studied this newly arranged Mr. Trent and had my first premonition of a coming intrusion.
Quickly, I placed the raingear, the gloves and rubber boots into one garbage bag and the chainsaw into another. Then I placed both bags into the carryall. I returned to the Jeep, tossed the bag into the back seat and drove away. A quarter of a mile down the road, I passed a speeding reservoir patrol car, headed in the direction I had come. I expect you cannot operate a chainsaw for very long on reservoir property. The sound does carry. The whine in my head was gone.
On my return home, I meticulously cleaned everything and returned them to their places. Shortly afterwards, I was once again sitting at the kitchen table. I gave a long sigh and then noticed my fingers tapping once again upon the table. It was just as it had been before the event. It was almost as if the event had never taken place.