Post by colts4500000000 on Aug 10, 2013 11:23:23 GMT -8
18-year-old Jerry Harner was blasting music through his iPod as he walked up to the bus stop. Graduation was only a few months away. That would be the end of the fast food job, that kept him up this late, it would be the end of the job that brought him every night alone to this bus stop. The smell of grease on his clothes, soon it would turn to the smell of the pines of Vancouver University. He would be free. He cranked up the music on his iPod, it was almost Winter. The wind was biting him viciously. He wrapped his coat around his face. He noticed the overhead light as he sat down. He had about 15 minutes until the bus would arrive. He hated sitting in the dark. He was glad that they installed the overhead light, though it gave no warmth, it gave him some comfort. There wasn't any traffic this late at night. It was just him and the smell of grease. He waited for the entirety of the 15 minutes. The bus had not come for some reason. This was odd.
It’d come every night the month prior that he had been working the fast food job. He began to hear crickets chirping. He decided to crank the iPod to full blast.
The bus would be here soon, wouldn’t it?
Jerry used his iPod as a watch, he had been playing music for 30 minutes the bus was extremely late. It probably wasn’t coming.
That would mean one thing, he could either keep waiting, or he could brave the streets of downtown Vancouver.
How far away was the bus anyway, it would be better for him just to stay put. It began to rain.
He pulled his jacket closer as the rain began to sting his face he stuffed his iPod in his jacket to protect it from the rain. He now had his iPod beyond full blast.
He looked up at the light. The singular light was beginning to flicker. He was now in a world of heavy metal and heavy rain.
But something seemed wrong.
A Click clack.
How could he hear anything through the rain and the music It was the same sound again. Click clack. Like business shoes stepping on pavement. How could he hear such a thing? His mind had been playing tricks on him.
He once again looked up at the light. It’d flickered off.
He was now enveloped in darkness. He couldn’t see a thing. He heard the click clack again. He decided to shut the iPod off. It kept getting closer. Whatever was behind those footsteps was coming. As of sort of a protective gesture he completely wrapped his coat around his face. He looked down. The shoes were right in front of him. He didn't have a chance to look up. He saw the silvery glint of the blade, he would never have a chance to be free. He wouldn't even have a chance to scream.
As the blade cut through the bitter night, the copper smell of blood would mix with the smell of grease.
Greeley Colorado - 1949
He was distraught. He was disgusted in its most pure form. He almost lost his faith. This rattled the student of education. What he had seen drawn out as Plato would've put it, could only be described in one way. Evil.
There was no other way of putting the ignorance that he had seen in this land that was supposedly free. They were not free at all, they were slaves, slaves to things. They were not even good enough to be slaves to a man They had to be slaves to something that wasn't even tangible in the sense that God wanted it to be. The ignorance was inexcusable for a place that supposedly was built upon the idea of resistance to tyranny. They had lived under the tyranny of evil. They didn't even realize it. The language they used. More importantly the language they used when watching individuals wallop and slug each other for entertainment. The dancing.
Dancing.
The drinking.
The cigarettes.
The white picket fences.
The clothes.
The consumerism. The white picket fences were a lie. The clothes were masks that hid them from the truth. They love things more than they loved each other. The dancing. He had to escape this place. But most of all he had to escape the dancing. He needed refuge.
Sayd felt sick to his stomach. After living in this ignorance for way too long, he needed refuge. He found it as he was walking towards the church. Though a devout Muslim, he respected the tradition of the Christians who knew the truth. They knew the inner peace was inward and never outward. That was what he saw. Everything was outward. These people were already dead and they didn't even know it. He felt as if he needed to vomit. His hand was shaking it was cold outside. It was winter. He could see his own breath. It definitely wasn't helping. He hastily entered the late-night service. The prophet Jesus would offer him counsel. The prophet Jesus would offer him warmth.
As he entered through the steps, placing his hand on the guard rail, he hastily pulled it back. The late year cold had enveloped it. As he jerked away, he felt a hand grip his. It was a comforting grip. He relaxed a little as the preacher simply said.
“Welcome brother.”
“Thank you, thank you very much.”
Sayd Qutb gripped the preacher's hand even harder as a show of respect, standing close to him, as was customary Arabic societies.
“Thank you very much.” He said once more before moving into the warmth of the church and what he thought would be the warmth and reinvigoration and guidance of the prophet Jesus. Though his physical cold proceeded to vanish, he noticed that the church was for some reason dark. This was supposed to be a Friday night church service, he was sort of perplexed. Why were the lights down? They were almost off. He found it hard to see. Standing in the midst of multiple bodies he noticed that a lot of the pews had been moved out of the way. The lights were dim. He noticed the men were dressed in soirée clothing. And the women. The women. They were dressed sensual, in a supposed house of God. How dare they? He expected to see pious young women. They were wearing short skirts, their buttocks were almost visible. Their breasts were visible.
Their breasts.
They were visible.
The man he thought would offer a sense of friendship,“The preacher” moved over to the pulpit which had been pelted with a sound system and a large record player. The “Preacher” and “Minister” moved the needle on the gramophone, and started up the music. As Dean Martin began to croon, “Baby It’s Cold Outside.” Sayd realized that even a house of God had become evil.
The prophet Jesus was not here.
All that was here was more of the ignorance and the lies that he had seen envelope America.
They began to grope each other and move slowly to the music.
Breast to breast.
Chest to chest.
This wasn't sanctity. This was not good. This was evil.
Evil.
Death.
Ignorance was death.
This was Jahiliyyah.
Death.
Without physically dying.
He hastily took one more look at the breasts and buttocks. And the dancing. The dancing had made its way into the house of God. This was not the house of God. He hastily ran away from the building and into the brisk cold night being enshrouded and wrapped in snow. He became numb and flew into a panic. He ran until he could run no longer. Only a few cars passed by on the road. He finally stopped. Completely numb. Not feeling. He almost fell forward as he lurched in a panic and wound up on the side of the road.
Afterword’s, he was still nervous. As he saw his own breath, he whispered in Arabic, “God is great.” And, “There is no God but God.”
That was not the case here.
Not in this land.
He vomited.
They would have 30 seconds to get to some form of shelter, 30 seconds before running the risk of losing a limb, they knew their entire house could be destroyed, rocked by a bomb blast. Sending photos, televisions, books and other furniture exploding every which way. Their only refuge would be a small concrete safe room. The safe rooms would be filled with the proper survival materials, food, by way of canned goods of course so that they would not spoil in case the citizenry had to wait for several weeks or perhaps even several months in case of a massive invasion from all sides, this was supposed to be a Mediterranean paradise, the palm trees and the sea were supposed to mix with the proper agrarian lifestyle of the Kibbutz.
The Israeli agricultural projects by the Mediterranean. It was no different for their neighbors in Gaza; they would have to constantly listen for the buzzing of an armed drone or approaching Apache helicopter. Several people could be killed within a “targeted assassination.”
These operations were meant to remove the terror threat from attacking the people of southern Israel; the Palestinian terrorist organizations had been extremely intuitive and industrious by using methods to reverse engineer Russian Grad rockets. One rocket landing in a residential area and actually killing someone could mean heavy rounds of bombings from the air or even a ground invasion. The 2008 Gaza war was able to show that thousands could easily be killed over small guerilla operations. Most recently it happened again a few weeks ago, though there was no ground invasion. This time.
“Mr. Sartre?, Can we get you a cigar?”
He was slowly moved back to reality and away from his thoughts as he inhaled the massive amounts of cigar smoke, that’s choking the briefing room, everyone but we had a cigar and a full ashtray under it. The smell of charred tobacco permeated the entire briefing room. Even the briefing screen at the end of the large table had been yellowed.
“Mr. Sartre?”
“No, thank you.”
He couldn’t see any of the faces surrounding him; he could see their business suits. They seemed to be older men, they had been playing this game for a very long time, and advanced Q&A was different for the superior agents. They were ushered into the office areas of The Labyrinth. And of course offered a cigar.
“Would you mind telling us what you think you found, Mr. Sartre?” one of the unnamed suits asked.
“I believe I have found a pattern within the history of our organization. A pattern of revolution. It should be given that we started the French Revolution. Although the American Revolution remains our greatest accomplishment. But it did not stop there. Somebody figured in 1917, that The Czar was causing serious trouble for our goals, Somebody at the time believed that he had direct contact with officials in the Templars, we had a charismatic scholar dust off a much ignored political pamphlet from the 1880’s we know that the writer of that pamphlet, Karl Marx, was definitely one of our members, the scholar activist, and murderer Vladimir Lenin was also definitely a member.”
“Interesting.”
“No one knows where the Georgian, Joseph Stalin, came from none of the societies claim him for their membership. Our financing and support of revolutions did not stop there, we also know for a fact that somebody from our organization ordered the assassination of President Kennedy in order to heat up the Vietnam War, it was at this time that we began to finance left-wing organizations all around the world with logistics. We supplied the West German Red Army Faction with weapons and explosives. We supplied the Congolese, we were directly involved with The Popular Front for the Liberation of Palestine.”
Sartre took a moment to relax, he was becoming tense.
"Don’t forget the Irish Republican Army, we supplied all these groups with Weapons, Ammunition, and Explosives until the early 1990’s. That’s when something began to happen. The Soviet Union began to crumble, we probably had something to do with this.”
He heard a few coughs from the cigar smoking suits.
“The Soviet Union was going to still remain a superpower, at least that’s what it hoped the entire thing was destroyed. They were going to sign The New Union Treaty within just a few days in early 1991. The general secretary of the Communist Party, Mikhail Gorbachev, wanted to turn the Soviet Union into a version of the United States, an Allied Confederation of socialist states with Moscow as the capital. It was at this exact time that a split occurred, within the party as well as, our own organization as well I believe.
We’ve always wanted the same goal of a new world order; however it seems Mr. Gorbachev, wanted to go back to classical liberalism, which we no doubt founded, and go back to the classical liberal fallback of capitalism. Gorbachev and his fellows within The Illuminati must’ve figured that capitalism was going to destroy itself hastily in the 1990’s. This did not occur, we were not always wrapped up in corporations and commodity fetishism, this now seems to be the dominant idea within the Illuminati. And it is indeed working. However; it is working to slow. Gorbachev and his followers have done nothing but set this organization back several years. It seems as all we want to do is look at stock reports, and play with gold pieces.
The Corporate Illuminati is indeed the majority. They are not getting the job done. We need revolution as we originally intended. And we need it now.”
“Impressive. Reminds me of me when I was young.” Said one of the suits.
“We will accomplish our goal when we say so.” Said another suit.
He would continue.
“You can use some of that energy Mr. Sartre, by traveling up to Vancouver, there have been reports of a serial killer, we need you to investigate and gather the evidence.”
Sartre knew what they meant.
“You’ll be paired with a determined detective, she may even be considered a candidate for initiation. You also will have to make that decision. She was recently admitted for psychiatric evaluation. A detective, Sarah Linden.”
“Your flight will leave tomorrow.” Said another suit.
Sartre rushed out of the briefing room and inhaled the underground fresh air.