David Wilcock, Death Threat, Lions, Tigers, Bears, Oh no, Round Two

December 19, 2011 at 5:12 pm (Mailbag, News)

Kerry, I wish that the majority of this could have remained private between us, as friends. But, being that it is not, I can deal with that.

So let me start simply by quoting words from a song by Tom Petty: You can stand me up at the gates of Hell and I won’t back down.

As far as the whole David Wilcock death threat/”Anonymous” radio interviews, I stand by what I said. I honestly do believe the whole thing was an orchestrated dog and pony show. I stated my opinions about this whole thing, and about Wilcock in the post a couple nights ago, and it seems that most everyone who is a follower of David Wilcock is now up in arms trashing me.

I love it. I’m used to it. The problem I have is that there seems to be a double set of standards. Some of us can be trashed, vilified, threatened on and on, and as long as we sit in the corner, eyes down, mouth shut, everything’s okay. We might even get a pat on the head from time to time. But let us state our opinions, yes, forcefully state our opinions, and all hell breaks loose.

So, I’m going to state my opinion one more time, Kerry. And again I will state — take it for what it’s worth. If it’s worth something to any of you — great. If it isn’t worth anything to any of you, that’s okay too. I feel it would have been more appropriate and more productive for you, Wilcock and “Anonymous”, to have had a discussion privately before ever allowing Wilcock to take to the radio.

Even then, it would have been better if you had hit the mute button when he began his bawling, and had him calm down before ever trying to speak. For all things, there is a season. I’m sorry, but in my opinion, his bawling incoherently on your radio show did him, nor anyone else, any good. Yes, it was a display of emotions. But then was not the time to display those emotions.

You and others over the past couple of days have stated that Wilcock isn’t like me. That’ true. And he should be glad for that. If he hadn’t elevated himself so high, he would not have fallen so far. What I mean by that is that he seems to fancy himself at near guru status. Being so confident about the future and what he thinks is going on, it is incongruous that he would behave at that time lacking aplomb and poise that befits that title, at least if not for himself, then for the benefit of those who he is an example to.

Was it not you, Kerry, who told someone not too long ago that we all choose to be here and we all choose what we’re going to go through, and we are not victims? So by your own words, David is no victim. Am I correct in this, or is this a double standard?

I have always counted you as a friend, Kerry. And I still do. I have always supported the work of Camelot and Avalon and Bill and you and he together. And I continue to do so, even with this. But I cannot in any way support what I have called this dog and pony show. I’ve been reading all over the internet today, people wh say I have no compassion, I’m cold, etc.

Kerry, I think yo know better than that. I have wept. I do weep. For innocents that I can’t help. For the children who are constantly being abused and killed, because there’s not enough people to give a damn to even try and stop it. But let someone say one foul word about someone who they hold in high esteem, and boy howdy. there comes all kinds of attention. even Jeff Rense has all this on his website. He’s afraid to touch the MILAB child abductions, but when it comes to gutter ilk, and BS like this, he’s all over it.

I’ve also seen where people say I was only doing this for attention. Trying to get publicity off of it. I think you know better than that, too. You know the number of interviews that we turn down. We turn down sometimes as many as ten interviews a week. It’s not about publicity for us, it never has been. I turned down book deals, because they want to turn that into a dog and pony show and not the truth.

If David’s life was really threatened, then he learned a good lesson. You dont publicly state that you’re not afraid of the powers that be, the Illuminati, and that you’re not afraid of death, and then receive a death threat from someone who calls someone who calls someone, who calls someone, and turn into a blabbering mess.

Kerry, as you and I have discussed many times, we are in a fight. And supposedly, David Wilcock is in this fight with us. Am I correct in that? Now, lt’s say you have two fighters in a ring. One fighter gets knocked down and bloodied. The bell rings. He gets helped back to his corner. Does a good trainer get in front of him, give him a hug and big sloppy kiss and tell hin everything’s gonna be alright? He slaps the piss out of him, tells him to get back up on his feet, and get back in there and fight to win. Then, it’s up to the fighter.

These are not the times for coddling. You know the kind of person I am, Kerry. I have helped a lot of people just by your asking. I’ve never turned you down once to help someone when you ask.  And why do you have top speak for these people so vehemently? Why can’t they speak for themselves? Another question I have concerning David Wilcock and others — it does concern me that you are spending a tremendous amount of time defending them. Why? These guys are big boys, they can take care of themselves, or they should be able to. If they’re going to be in this fight with us, they’re going to have to learn to take care of themselves.

Now, I don’t even want to go into the whole gold/bearer bonds/lawsuit/book of codes , because it’s all BS. Do you remember NESARA? How long’s that been around? You should know, and David should know, and “Anonymous” damn well knows, these people can shut down entire countries with the snap of a finger. do you and David really belive that trying to legally sue someone is going to change anything? Nope. It ain’t.

Oh, and I did read today someone accusing me of being very long-winded, so I guess I need to hurry up and finish, okay?

What I want to do now is copy and paste a very few paragraphs of a book  I wrote. In these paragraphs you will read what I learned a life’s lesson about when to show emotion and when not to. Every word you read in these paragraphs are true — they happened. And I carry the scars, Not only the physical, but the mental and psychological scars of that event every day with me. I see that child’s face every day.

So, I want to close this with one statement. I said my piece about all this. I don’t care who hates me, or who I’ve disgusted with anything I’ve said, I’ve stated my opinion, I stated the truth.

I would rather have 100 enemies that respect me, than a million friends who will turn their back on me.

And the gods know, I’ve got the enemies, and right now they’re lining up. I’m done with this. friendships can be fleeting — it’s up to you.

__________________________________________________________

At the top of the stairs, I hesitated for two or three seconds. Decision time. Two closed doors faced me with nothing to tell me which one was dangerous. As always, I thought of the Lady and the Tiger story. A magnified sound came through my earphones. I shoved them off to better orient on the noise. A sort of faint feeble scratching, like a moth’s wing on paper, filtered through the door to the left.

The old fashioned surface-mounted lock flew open when I side-kicked the lock with my boot and the scene went into tableau. What I saw will haunt me until the day I die. The man was maybe forty-two or forty-three, slender and adequately muscled. The girl was maybe five or six, and she was face down on the table. Her eyes, still turning toward the sound of the splintering lock, had what might have been hope in their lost blue depths when the man drove the knife into the back of her small, helpless neck.

A glance at the smears of blood on the table and her buttocks told me she had been raped and sodomized. The rag in her mouth told me why her hands had made the only sound I had heard. By the time the arm with the knife had finished its swing, the cry “No witnesses!” reached me. “You can prove I killed her, but you can’t prove I fucked her. They can’t blame that one on me.”

His triumph turned to puzzlement when I dropped to one knee and sent a three-round burst into his chest. Just over the heart. Then I lost it. Maybe it was those forlorn eyes over the rag-stuffed mouth. Maybe the background array of Bunsen burners and open cabinets stacked with bags of cocaine. Maybe the fact that my own daughter would soon be the age of this one. Whatever it was, this asshole would never “break in another new ’un.” A red berserk rage closed over me before the dead man could finish slamming into the faded wallpaper. I remember some kind of twisted intertwined patterns of vines and flowers running up to an incongruous border of Greek frieze.

The three-round burst had killed him. The knife hit the floor before the corpse hit the wall. I began unstitching the bastard, up and down, across and back, holding the body dancing against the wall. What parts of it weren’t soaking into or being imbedded in the wallpaper were flying all around the room.

I had expended maybe a dozen rounds when I kicked in the front door. Another three when I killed the bastard. An Ingram MAC-10 can take a ninety round clip, and I always used a ninety round clip when on a job such as this, so I must have hit the bastard seventy-five or so  times after I killed him. As I said, the corpse was dancing on the wall and coming apart fast. Blood, brain, shit, and body matter was running down the wall. It seemed like an eternity before my bolt fell on empty.

I threw my weapon around my back on its sling and turned to the little girl, tears welling in my eyes. I began working the wadded rag out of her mouth, then pressing my hand to the wound in her neck while I fumbled for a handkerchief. Somehow, she managed to take hold of my hand, hope still in her eyes as they glazed over and her gurgling breath stopped.

I lost it again. Still holding the little body in one arm, I pulled my weapon back to the front and detached the magazine. I had decided to shoot the bastard some more. So I laid the small, lifeless body back on the table. I was still fumbling with a fresh magazine when Richards stalked into the room, his face placid behind a cloud of cigar smoke.

 “What the hell is wrong with you?” I heard him say as three other Unicorns trotted in behind him. I whipped the MAC-10 up and squeezed the trigger as I pointed it at Richards. The gun was still empty, and I didn’t even have the satisfaction of hearing the hammer fall on an empty chamber as the other Unicorns grabbed me from all sides and wrestled it away from me. Richards turned away from me and waved his cigar around the room. “Log it and get the hell out of here.” He was as unruffled by the corpse and the splattered body as he was by my attempt to kill him — one cold son of a bitch. A true animal.

Not so were Kentucky’s finest, the state police who were sent to clean up. Wherever you looked there was a state cop heaving his guts up. I guess their training had failed to prepare them for follow-up operations here, where the clean-up was done with a shovel and bucket.

Anyway, their job was to dispose of the bodies and drugs, and dummy up a story like how a prisoner or two was taken then turned over to authorities in some far off state on a fugitive warrant or something. From all the Bunsen burners and other equipment in use, the house might have been hooked into one of the dozens of gas wells in the area, and I half expected to see the house go up in flames from an open gas line. I don’t know if it happened. An hour from the time I first saw the house, and less than ten minutes after I kicked in the first door, I picked up my spent magazine. Sean handed me my Ingram as I walked out of the yard. I didn’t look back.

Halfway down the rough leveled half-acre that served the coal company crack factory as a heliport and parking lot, Sean stumbled over a loose rock. When he righted himself, he was chuckling. “You really would have shot our Ernst, wouldn’t you?” he asked as he draped an arm across my shoulders.

“What do you think?” I asked him, as I flicked my flashlight where the Blackhawks and Cherokees were waiting. They were too far away for the beam to reach, but at least we wouldn’t have to climb up the hundred feet of rope to get a ride back to debriefing. Richards probably didn’t want any blood or brain matter smudged on those neat nylon ropes. “Sean, my friend, did you ever feel like you couldn’t kill something enough and just shooting it somehow fell short in punishment?” I asked, as we picked up our pace.

“Ever since I was a kid,” Sean answered. “When I was about eight years old I had a hamster, a golden hamster. Just a white-bellied rodent, no bigger than my hand is now.”

 Big friggin’ hamster, I thought to myself.

“Uh, Sean,” I said. “I’ve heard this one before.”

“Quiet, lad,” came his reply. “You need to hear this. Now where was I? Ah, yes. This hamster was a super hamster. He had to be strong because he learned to spread the bars of his cage and get out. Every night he would wake me up, snuggling against my shoulder.

“Well, my older sister had a kitten, a mean half-Siamese sumbitch that would rake his claws across any ankle he could get to, except Margaret’s. One morning I realized Clark hadn’t woken me up. I called him Clark Kent, and I found him at the door to my room. That slant-eyed bastard kitten was sitting there with his paws hooked out waiting for Clark to move. Despite being wet with cat saliva, the little body was still faintly warm. So the cat played with him, maybe for hours. Probably crippled him first so he couldn’t get away. Then he came back and played with him.

“Of course,” he continued on, “I couldn’t kill the cat … then. My sister ran out of her room, grabbed him up, and ran to Mama for protection. You know what reminded me of Clark Kent? It was that baby lying on that table. Played with then killed. I suppose the prick thought he was going to get to be tried, and one of those hill juries would go easier on a murder than they would on rape and sodomy of a child.”

He was right, of course. These old boys may not put too high a value on life, but they sure do on self-respect and dignity. No one ever said they were the brightest people on earth.

“Anyway, I buried Clark Kent in a shoe box, and then I went back behind the garage and dug a hole big enough to hold a hat box. I wanted to bury that damn cat alive, but he would have ripped my hands open and left evidence my sister would have recognized. I wound up smashing him with the flat side of a shovel and cramming him into a small hat box.”

By now, we had reached our Jeep Cherokee. The Blackhawks were for Richards and the state police. The other Unicorns were catching up to us. “As far as my sister ever knew, old Sun Yat Sin just wandered off. But my daddy would look at me sometimes and rub the scars on his ankles. Times I’d swear he tipped me a wink, but I did my best to look puzzled.”

Sean paused and fished out one of the long brown cigarettes he favored. “My point, Duncan, is that what you felt up there is older and more basic than any concept of justice man ever came up with, my friend. Christ may have died for our sins, but that can’t match the satisfaction we feel from putting a few rounds of lead into some asshole that is feeding off the young and weak-minded. And you know by now, money is a great insulator. No matter how you get it, it protects you from the slings and arrows of outraged justice. The only thing you have to worry about is vengeance, and our Christian laws have outlawed that. Our only hope for real justice is the sort of end-run we are giving the pricks, where you shove a muzzle up their ass and run through a magazine.

“Hang in there. That kid could have been your own little girl, could she not? Same hair, same eyes. Only one thing wrong with your actions. You didn’t stay cool. Get hot later and scream like hell. But keep your cool while the action is on. And Duncan, I think you really would have shot Richards. You scared that man tonight. You scared me, too.”