Christovoe's Story

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This is going to sound strange. 

 

That’s the problem. It sounds so stupid. Most of the people involved refuse to talk about it. They know they’d just sound crazy. Anyway, here it goes: I have magic mind control powers and I am on the run from a secret government agency who wants to use my powers for evil. Oh, and I desperately need help. I know I sound ridiculous. People tune me out like they’re hearing the confused rantings of a flat-earther. 

 

If you knew me when I was younger, you’re probably wondering if this is like the time I told everyone I saw Kanye West driving a brown, late nineties, Toyota Corolla through my neighborhood jamming to The Clash. This is nothing like that. I was just like everyone else in college; desperately seeking attention and too into Kanye.

 

This story is more like the time that I saw this creature in the woods at the end of my street. I’m not saying it was bigfoot. I’m just saying that bigfoot is the only explanation that makes sense.

 

In other words, I can’t explain everything I’m about to tell you and it’s going sound like hippy paranoia — like the convulsing dream of a degenerate paint-huffer. That’s actually the perfect segue because, much like huffing paint, this story is all about a buzz — not a high — but, a literal buzz. It’s the quantum buzz — the fundamental vibration of the universe that is all around us and running through us. Few people in our world are sensitive enough to feel it. It’s like the rattling of an old hotel air conditioner, so omnipresent that nobody notices it until it shuts off. 

 

The cosmic vibration is responsible for our very existence. It gives life. Hell, it is life. That vibration is responsible for everything you know and love. I know this sounds abstract, but it’s important. Trust me, the dots will begin to connect.

 

Most of what happened took place in Cincinnati, Ohio, my hometown. Where “hillbillies of the north” put chili on their spaghetti. But my journey also took me to strange isolated places far more desolate than people know is possible — places that feel like a hellish parallel dimension like Dayton, Ohio but actual parallel dimensions too.

 

But let’s start right here. I’m in a very famous female musician’s Malibu beach house. That’s as specific as I can be and frankly, that’s probably saying too much. But I’ll be moving on soon anyway.

 

It’s a Tuesday, I think, in February 2024. It’s a gorgeous morning and I’m laying in a ridiculously large bed staring out at the glimmering Pacific Ocean through the looming floor to ceiling windows. I didn’t break in. I’m not squatting or anything. The owner knows I’m here. I imagine she has several homes though. I’ve never met her but she seems cool on TV. I think she’s playing at Coachella this year. I’d love to wait around and say hi but like I said, I won’t be here long. You’ve got to keep moving when you’re in hiding. That’s what they tell me anyway.

 

I’m supposed to just sit and wait. No internet or phones. The agents would be scanning for that. So, while I wait I figured I’d better start documenting what happened. 

 

This musician isn’t the only one helping out. There are a lot of celebrities, music artists, tech millionaires, CEOs and such that hide people like me in their vacant properties. There’s a list and only one person in the world has that list. We’ll talk about who that is later but the point is I’m ok for now.

 

Ok, so how did I end up here, and who am I hiding from? 

 

I sing and write songs. I make music at home on my computer and put it all out there for all the world to hear. Up until recently, the world didn’t seem to care. Nobody listened. And I mean nobody. Not even my mom and dad, nobody. My best friend Fish said he listens to my music all the time, but he’s just being a good friend. I know he never really did. I check the analytics. Dust bunnies and tumbleweeds. One time I logged in and it said my monthly listeners had increased by 3000%. It turns out that someone had accidentally added one of my songs to a “Sweatin’ to the Oldies” workout playlist. I have to admit I laugh out loud when I picture a bunch of senior citizens jazzercising to Tina Turner as my slow-sad song about ego-disillusionment comes on and ruins the vibe. Anyway, that was the peak of my music career.

 

Nobody would listen to my music willingly. So, of course, I forced them to!

 

I used to sing and play acoustic guitar at bars. So, I started slipping my original indie rock tunes into my sets of cover songs. That didn’t work though. I just got irritated looks and more requests for “Wagon Wheel” or “Wonderwall”. The bars I played at seemed to attract the kind of guys who popped the collars on their polos and chain smoked cigs while pounding IPAs and shots of Fireball.

 

Those gigs were fun at first but they got old fast. Nobody was really listening to me there either. 

 

But one day a couple years ago, everything changed.

 

I had just finished an acoustic rendition of “My Michelle” by Guns and Roses. I looked up to see these two guys across the bar lining up Jager bombs on their table. A Jager-bomb is a shot of Jagermiester in a glass of Red Bull. I’ve heard that because the energy drink is an upper and the alcohol is a downer, one glass is about as bad for your heart as doing a line of cocaine. These guys had six ready to go. They were already wasted. Everyone in their orbit was all too aware of their presence. They were unignorable. There were about 25 people in the bar. I was clear across the room sitting in front of two PA speakers and could still tell you exactly what they were talking about; “getting pussy.” Their only chance at success was to find girls drunker than them.

 

I have no problem with having a drink. I’ll have a couple of beers myself while I play but these guys were just gross. It was gluttonous. Girls who passed by too closely became the victims of awkward unwanted hugs, spilled drinks, and sloppy pick-up attempts. It would have been funny if it wasn’t so obnoxious.

 

Then I realized I knew one of them. It was Eric. Eric from high school. Eric, whose dad was a prominent lawyer and friends with a state senator. The same Eric who raped a passed-out girl after our senior prom and somehow got off without so much as a stern talking to, let alone jail time. Thanks, lawyer-dad! Eric was even invited back to the alumni basketball game every year after we graduated. The poor girl was ostracized, quit her track team, and had to switch schools for the last month of her senior year because of the bullying. I didn’t know her well but I had sat next to her in homeroom. She used to let me copy her French homework.

 

Eric was privilege, asshole, and douchebaggery personified. And also, um, yeah, a rapist.

 

His ears must have been burning. 

He looked over at me and shouted, “Hey, play some Florida Georgia Line!”

 

He didn’t wait for my response. Just went back to hassling the women at the next table.

 

I don’t hate a lot of things and I try to never hate people. But I hate modern country music and I think I hate Eric.

 

I shuddered and shook it off.

 

I announced on the mic that I was going to play one of my songs and for some reason thought it was a good idea to mutter under my breath into the mic, “this one is for the two douchebags by the window.”

 

No reaction from the crowd. But somehow Eric had heard me.

 

I started the song, strumming the opening riff on my guitar, but found myself distracted by these idiots. I felt this anger flowing through me as I played. It was tangible. I was still playing the intro to the song when I realized I was staring these guys down. They noticed too. They were looking at me, then at each other, then back at me, trying to decide if I was giving them the stink-eye or not and if I had really just called them douchebags.

 

They said something to each other, pushed their chairs out of the way, and started lurching toward me, fast. They were pissed and they were coming to beat the shit out of me. That was clear.

 

They were only about twenty steps away from me — staggering but moving fast toward me.

 

I kept playing the song. My focus locked in on Eric’s eyes. Black. Hollow.

 

It was time for the lyrics to come in. They were ten steps away from me now, their fists clenched, their faces showed some combination of confused, stupid, and pissed.

 

All I could feel was anger. There was no fear. I just kept playing.

 

Eric cocked his arm back and leaned forward as he trudged closer.

The muscles in my face tightened as I started singing…

 

Someone settle me down

Someone settle me… down

Someone settle me down

 

Suddenly a bright purple light flashed through the bar.

 

The two men stopped dead in their tracks a foot in front of me. They turned to look at each other, cocked their heads back, and then whipped them forward headbutting each other as hard as they could. The crack of their skulls sounded like two bowling balls colliding at 100 miles per hour.

 

They fell to the floor like a couple of dumb, drunk, rag dolls — knocked out cold.

 

The humming of conversations stammered to silence as people started looking in my direction. It was a sight to see. Two unconscious men tangled on the floor at my feet. Feedback squealed out of my speakers. I stood there silent and confused as everyone else.

 

The whole bar was looking at me now.

 

A couple seconds passed like hours before I broke the silence, “Thanks, everyone. I’m going to take a little break.”

 

I rushed out the back door, got in my car, and left.



It would probably be helpful for you to know a few things about our government that most people don’t know or at least, don’t believe. For starters, many conspiracy theories are actually true or at least the theories were based on true events. Not all of them, of course. There are no lizard people and the moon landing wasn’t fake. But far more of them are real than you would ever guess.

 

Also, a substantial number of people in our government are evil interdimensional beings. That’s a heavy meal to digest. Feel free to take a minute. We’ll get back to that later.

 

Everyone knows politicians lie and most of them are self-interested, fear-mongering, money-hoarders but that’s not who I’m talking about. The majority of those politicians are as ignorant as the rest of us when it comes to what I’m talking about here. I’m talking about — and god forgive me for even using this term — the deep state. 

 

Yes, there is a deep state, it’s just not the hillbilly version of the deep state popularized by a certain yellow-haired former-president

 

The real deep state only wants one thing: power.

 

The deep state is a group of people who lead and organize a highly advanced web of agencies — some secret, some hiding in plain sight — who use our government to do the dirty work they require to maintain control. These are sophisticated and dangerous people and they control everything. Some of them are from this dimension. Some of them are not.

 

We’re not talking about the idiot fantasies of a 4Chan surfing Qanon diehard.

 

Hillary’s eating babies at ‘da pizza shop! Somebody gots ta’ stop her!

 

No, we’re talking about human cloning programs.

We’re talking about alien weapons technologies.

We’re talking about a series of volatile interdimensional portals.

We’re talking about secret cyber wars, deepfake misinformation campaigns, and election tampering — another one of the things the conspiracy theorists accidentally got right, kind of.

 

But mostly, we’re talking about AEPPs: Advanced Experimental Propaganda Programs

The deep state has never been subtle with its acronyms.

 

The people who run our country and effectively, the world, would completely lose control if their propaganda machines were to suddenly shut down. There are too many of us and it’s too risky to let us live, as they say, “unguided”.

 

But the pandemic threw everything out of whack. By the end of 2020, trust in federal institutions and mainstream media was at an all-time low with people on the right of the political spectrum and it was steadily dropping for those on the left. It was exactly what the people in power had feared. Their methods for controlling the public, methods that had been successful for centuries, suddenly stopped working.

 

The orange man, vile as he was, had been effective at breaking down trust in media platforms that really were trying to mislead the public. At the same time, he took a sledgehammer to the foundation of trust in our government, which of course, was already fragile.

 

The old strategies for controlling the public had to be replaced.

 

That’s why in January 2021, around the same time that I was smashing douchebags heads together in bars, the director of a secret government agency known only as Agency 2 was instructed to deploy new AEPPs that, up until then, had been considered too dangerous to take out of the research phase. They were desperate.

 

Three programs were deployed.

 

The first was something they referred to as “extreme surveillance”. The only shocking part about it is that they weren’t already doing it. Yes, your phone is listening to you. But that’s just the tip of the invasion-of-privacy iceberg.

 

The second one is a new iteration of an old project called the Alternative Human Cloning Program. They had been trying to create “the perfect media influencers” for decades. In these programs they would clone humans, train them in isolation for years in controlled government labs, wipe their memories, and then release them. They tried numerous methods of mind control with the clones but after releasing them out into the world, they would always go rogue.

 

You’d be floored if you knew all the people who are actually clones from this program. Some of them are almost too obvious, Alex Jones and Garey Busey for example. But others, not so much. Did you ever think that Paul Rudd, the most likable guy on the planet, is actually a brainwashed government clone! Well, he is. Somehow, it almost makes you like him even more.

 

So, in 2021, they took it to a whole new level and began creating true monstrosities. They merged technologies from the alternative cloning program with other programs to create “super-human drones”. They implant microchips and a system of nodes into the drone’s brains so the agency can override their natural human thoughts and desires and replace them with the output of an A.I. program. Agency 2 can remotely control everything these people do and say, and can turn their autopilot on and off like a Tesla. They began referring to these people as NPCs, or “Nonplayer characters”. It’s a term borrowed from the gaming community.

 

Then there’s the third and final program they deployed, or rather, rehashed. 

 

Code name: Dead Heads.

 

Agency 2 began studying cults sometime in the seventies. One of the agents, Joseph Gore, noticed how fans at Grateful Dead concerts often exhibited cult-like behavior. So, he asked his director if he could look deeper into what was going on and got approval to follow the band around on tour. He fully immersed himself in the world of the Dead Heads, went full-on hippy to blend in – skinny dipping, dropping acid, the whole nine.

 

He didn’t know it then, and his bosses at Agency 2 certainly didn’t know it, but what he discovered would change the course of the entire universe.

 

One entry in Agent Gore’s field notes tells the story.

 

June 30th, 1975

 

I have learned it is important to focus my observation on the crowd now and not the band.

The hypnotic suggestion and subsequently, the transformation, seems to happen when Garcia sings the song “Row Jimmy”. Is it that song? Is it something happening whenever that song is played? Is it something in the words themselves? The notes? The frequencies? The melody? A magic spell? Unclear.

 

It happens approximately thirty seconds in when Garcia begins singing.

 

A vivid violet light, like an ocean wave, rolls over the crowd and they stand at attention like soldiers addressing their general. Many of these people are on high doses of LSD and marijuana, sometimes amphetamines, but that doesn’t seem to be the cause or even related to this group psychosis.

 

Inevitably, the morning after that song is played, right at sunrise, more than half of the band’s most dedicated followers leave. They go home after being in the caravan for a stretch of months.

 

I believe there is a message in the song, or in Garcia’s words, that gives them permission, releases them to go home, or perhaps a command, an order to go home. 

 

And they follow the order en masse.

 

 

Agent Gore went on to surveil and document numerous other musicians who he suspected of having the same psychic abilities. But the program was ultimately considered a failure. It was defunded and his work was archived. 

 

Gore was a laughing stock when he first presented his research. They called him Agent Acid. But their biggest insult was when they categorized and filed his research alongside all the hoaxes — in the same file as fake psychics and the lochness monster. He never forgot that.

 

But desperate times call for desperate measures. So when Agent Gore became Director Gore in December of 2020 and he found himself in charge of choosing the strategies that would help the deep state regain control of the peopl, guess which program he chose to reinstate and lead himself.

 

Jerry Garcia died in 1995. So, Director Gore and his team of goons are out there looking for the new generation of musical mystics.

 

That’s where I come in.

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