THE CHRONICLES OF AREA 57

The shooter was aiming high. Clearly, the second man just wanted to scare we the intruders, and, of course, he also didn’t want to shoot his partner.

Mike and I ducked down. He grabbed my arm and hauled me to the back, through a short hall, where we came to a rear door.

“Let’s get out of here!” Mike shot.

I asked, “Giving up so soon?”

“I didn’t come here to die.”

As the second agent entered the room through the front door, shooting another volley of ammo toward us, we exited through the back door and scurried outside. We ran around the length of the old motel, over to the front side, crossed the street, and got into the Ford truck and peeled out of there, toward the west. It didn’t take long before the two agents got in their black van and started following us.

Mike and I got into his rusty Ford truck early that morning, around 6:30 am. We had warm black coffee and energy bars on the go – no time for a real breakfast. We got off the winding dirt roads of the vast vicinity of cabins and onto Mesa Rd, heading north toward Mulvern. After a couple miles, we turned left onto Foothill Rd, then right onto Trading Post Rd. Then down to Mulvern Ave. We headed west, toward the edge of town. Just before the Rocket Station about a half-mile was the L and M motel. The black van was parked out front. If we had waited too long, they would have left most likely. For breakfast somewhere or their usual snooping around. We parked by the little brick co-op building across the street, then got out. I had my shotgun, and Mike had a 44 Magnum.

I ventured, “We’re just going to barge in on them?”

Mike replied, “Sometimes you have to be spontaneous in these matters.”

It happened very fast. We crossed the street and walked swiftly over to the door the van was parked in front of. There were only two other cars which meant all the other rooms were vacant. There weren’t a lot of visitors in Mulvern. It was too small a town. But since a light came from this one room, we knew someone was inside.

Mike pounded his fist on the door and hollered, “Open up!” Evidently he didn’t know the meaning of the word stealthy. Nothing happened. Mike tested the knob, and it was locked. He lifted his booted foot and slammed it against the door a few times, weakening it. He slammed it three more times and the door gave, ripping off the hinges. Mike leaped inside, aiming his Magnum 44. There was a tall slim man coming out of the bathroom. He had just gotten his black slacks and white shirt on.

I lifted my shotgun and pointed it at him — more for effect than anything else. Mike aimed his Magnum 44 at the guy’s chest level.

“What’s the meaning of this?” the man demanded. “Who are you?”

Mike barked, “Stop playing dumb. You know who I represent.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“No time for games. I know who you work for. Now where’s your partner?” Mike demanded.

“Out buying breakfast.” The man’s shoulders slumped. Perhaps he wasn’t used to being on this side of the gun barrel.

“Where?”

“Some donut shop just down the street.”

“Betty’s Pastry’s,” I clarified. “Just a block from here.”

“How long ago did he leave?”

“Just a couple minutes ago.”

“Good.”

I knew Mike was being spontaneous, but clearly he intended to interrogate this guy.

“Sit in that chair and don’t move.” Mike pointed his gun at the chair near the curtained window. The man sat down. I noticed a shoulder holster with gun laying on the far bedside table, out of reach from the man now – and he even glanced sidelong over toward it, wishing he could just grab it.

“If you try for your gun, you’ll get a bullet in the head before you reach it,” Mike growled. I knew he was just trying to sound scary – hoping he didn’t actually intend to do what he said – if worse came to worst.

Mike snapped, “Where’s the bodies?”

The man shrugged, “What bodies?”

“I said no more games! I know you kidnapped two journalists from Barstow.”

The man shook his head. “We did no such thing.”

“Stop lying!” He put the gun to the man’s head.

“You obviously don’t understand how we operate.” I swear I saw the corner of his lip turn up — a vague smile of sorts.

“Oh yeah? Enlighten me.”

“My partner and I didn’t kill anyone. We’re completely innocent.”

“Oh, I get it. Two of your buddies did the killing, but it was up to you to bury the bodies. Accessory to the crime. You’re still guilty as hell!”

The man did not respond, but Mike was sure this was their plan.

Suddenly, a submachine gun blasted a barrage of bullets through the window.

I knew we had to plan some kind of plot to nab those two goons. So Mike and I had to put our heads together.

Mike sipped his coffee, and replied “I have clues that our two agents may have killed a couple of individuals.”

“Seriously?”

“Yes. A couple weeks ago, according to other Foundation agents, our two suspects drove down to Barstow for one of their mission objectives. Obviously their superiors sent them on a brief assignment.”

I piped up, “That explains why they left Mulvern for a while. I wondered where they went.”

Mike nodded, “Right. Now, two men in Barstow disappeared. Both of them were online journalists writing the same kind of conspiracy subjects that you put in your blogs and e-zines. Unfortunately, our surveilling operatives lost track of the two Group agents, so they couldn’t ascertain exactly what happened, so the two victims disappeared without a trace. Soon after the disappearance, the two agents returned to the Mulvern area. It’s obvious to us that these two victims were either kidnapped or killed. But we haven’t got enough evidence to prove anything.”

I surmised, “I take it your plan is to prove they committed a crime, possibly murder, so the authorities can arrest them.”

“In a nutshell. But without that, we don’t have much of a plan.”

“So, accusing those two goons of being co-conspirators with a secret global-takeover conglomerate wouldn’t hold water,” I smiled my facetiousness.

“No – they’d throw us in some dark asylum for saying that,” he grinned.

I nodded, “Know the feeling. Anyway, if it was murder, there would be two bodies stashed somewhere.”

“We’re pretty sure we’re looking at murder one. Considering we’re in the wide open desert, our goons probably buried the bodies out in the middle of nowhere. Hundreds of miles of nowhere.”

“That sucks.” My coffee too cold now, I put it aside.

“Our operatives are scouring the land between Barstow and Mulvern, but so far, finding nothing.”

I shook my head. “It seems hopeless.”

“The only other plan would be to capture them and interrogate them to see if we can make them crack like walnuts.”

“You think that’ll work?”

Mike shrugged, “Those guys are tough, so it’s hard to tell.”

“I suggest we put them in separate rooms, interrogate them separately. Being apart should weaken them. Maybe tell one that the other is confessing. Then see how he responds.”

Mike frowned, “You’ve seen too many cop shows, haven’t you?”

“Yeah,” I shrugged.

“But that’s what we do anyway. Normally, I’m supposed to call a special interrogator. I’m no interrogation expert, but in a pinch, I can pull my weight.”

“Alright. Sounds like we’ve got a good enough plan.”

Mike stood up. “Get a good night’s sleep. We’re going hunting tomorrow.”

Considering it was a nice warm day outside, too sunny for me though, I was just stepping out to take off in my Blazer, when Mike Smith in his rust-bucket truck pulled into my driveway.

He smiled at me, “John told me he contacted you.”

So Mike is the hidden agent! I suspected as much, with some doubt though at first.

“Yep,” I replied.

“It’s time for us to connect and set matters in motion.”

I was hoping this wasn’t just another schizophrenic delusion. Mike seemed real, so I decided to shut my paranoid mind up and assume all this was indeed real.

I brought him down to Area 57, and got a fresh pot of coffee going. The A/C was on, cooling us down, since it was hot outside. I gave him the grand tour, which only took a couple minutes. Sipping our coffee, we sat and talked in my station of operations, since I had a convenient folding chair he could use. I showed him my collection of research books and magazines and DVDS and videos and whatnot. I played him one of my DVDs from when I taped a few people who had claimed to witness UFOs, most of them just crackpots, but they were essentially amusing if not actually useful. He was mildly impressed with the whole set up, but asked if I felt claustrophobic down here. I told him I was used to it, and I did get outside now and then.

He said he’d go nuts if he had to hole up in underground confining quarters like this. I told him Calvin Jones thought I was nuts. And so did I sometimes. After more idle chit chat, we got down to business.

I recorded our conversation, so here it is:

Mike said, “The Foundation has agents in numerous locations all over the US and several other nations around the world. We also have agents in the Postal industry to monitor questionable mail, like from certain intelligence branches, other areas of the government, the military, police departments in certain cities, various big businesses, even in the political arena. We’re looking for moles essentially. We know that the various secret government groups have infiltrated in these areas. They also have a lock on all the mega-banks – not to mention the whole banking industry. Money is power, you know.”

I told him, “All this I’ve been researching and posting on my Zones Unknown blog, as you know, I’m sure.”

He grinned, “I’m no writer, but as an avid reader, I find your articled mildly entertaining.”

“‘Mildly entertaining’?”

“Well, the Foundation has access to information that makes your stuff the tip of the iceberg.”

“I see. Well, I figure there’s always more dirt to dig up somewhere.”

Mike said very gravely, “If I told you everything I know, and you wrote articles based on it, I assure you, within a few days, somebody would kill you.”

“Yikes!” I yelped.

“Now, listen. We have to come up with a plan of action, somehow disposing of these two covert agents that have been watching you. Actually, the Group has so many operations and missions in preparing for a world take-over, your shenanigans are barely above the radar — you and several other conspiracy writers. But it’s enough to get attention.”

“So I’m not actually that big a deal?”

“Yes and no. If you become a serious threat, they’ll seriously try to silence you.”

“Well, I’m still shouting my spiel online, so they haven’t shut me up yet.”

“Only recently you’ve put up a big stink with your current articles, but this has to be done to dredge them out into the open, so you and I can confront them.”

I growled, “I tried to confront them! Stopped them on the road and pointed a shot gun at them! They acted ignorant, like I was a loony case.”

“They had to play dumb,” Mike assured me. “They can’t openly reveal themselves until the time is right. But we’re going to act first before they do. Because when they get their orders, the way they’ll confront you is . . . not good.”

“What? They’ll kidnap me and interrogate me? Demand I shut up?”

“They might do that at first, if their orders require this. But, normally, in this kind of situation, when they need to silent someone, they execute him.”

I gulped. “Oh.”

“Shoot first and never ask questions.”

“Yikes!” Of course I suspected as much, but tried to not think about it.

“We can’t let them get to either of us first. So we have to beat them to it.”

“What? You have orders to kill them?”

“No. Our usual plan is to stick something illegal on them so the authorities will arrest them.”

“They tried that with me.”

“Only to scare you. But if that stuck, you’d be out of the way, in prison, not able to write anymore revealing articles. Execution is usually a last resort.”

“Since I foiled that plan, what do you think they’ll try next?”

“I can only guess. They have to sit tight until they get their orders. And if it’s to kill you, we need to be extremely alert.”

I sipped my cooling down coffee. “I keep thinking, if I stay down here in this bomb shelter, I’ll be safe.”

Mike shook his head. “I think you have a big blind spot. I get the feeling you confuse the way you write fiction with factual accounts. You reveal too much in your blog, not realizing what you’re saying to readers.”

“A blind spot? What is it?”

“Your little bomb shelter, Area 57 as you affectionately call it, is no secret to your blog readers. If the enemy wants to find you, believe me, they will.”

“Crap!” I put my head in my hands. Yeah, quite a blind spot. “Man am I being stupid or what? Why didn’t that occur to me?!”

Mike chuckled, “You weren’t thinking, had a lot on your mind. Or too busy being paranoid about everything else, you overlooked the obvious.”

I shook my head and sighed heavily in despair. But then I got to thinking, the secret hatch in the closet that leads down there can be locked with three heavy duty dead bolt from the inside, and three padlocks topside when I’m not down there, so that would prevent someone from breaking in – I hoped. Unless they blasted it open with C4. I sighed again.

Mike reassured me, “It doesn’t matter now, we’re going to take action.”

“So what’s your plan, Mike?”

Time for a diversion, folks.

What is the ambiguity device? It’s not some vague mechanical device or gizmo – although I might invent such a gadget someday. But this is a fancy writing technique that is vaguely ambiguous — at least to readers, or it better be if used properly. Actually, it’s a tool some writers have used in most cases when they are acting as their own characters in an account, supposedly a nonfiction, real-life account, where the author doesn’t directly tell you in blatant terms whether it is specifically fictional or autobiographical in nature, or elements of both. So he leaves the reader guessing.

For instance: Richard Bach’s Illusions, where the author meets a reluctant messiah; Carlos Castaneda’s strange shamanic books, such as The Teachings of Don Juan, and his other related books on Yaqui shamanism; or Chuck Barris’ The Confessions of a Dangerous Mind, about the game show host who claims he was secretly a CIA assassin — to name a few examples for the use of this clever device. I suspect others may fall in this area like Witley Strieber’s Communion, about his alleged alien encounters. He might have made it all up — although I could be wrong and perhaps he actually did have dealings with aliens. See? The reader isn’t clear one way or the other whether such accounts are true or not. He must decide for himself.

In such books, authors are telling stories about themselves, and whether or not these are true accounts is uncertain, because the author will not tell you one way or the other. Isn’t that rude, or what?

Such a writing technique adds a special element of suspense and mystery and intrigue to the given account, which makes you try to figure out for yourself what is true or not.

Because if the author blatantly told you that if this account was 100% real, or 100% fictional, or 50-50, or even 60-40, a little of both, that would take the fun out of the whole thing, and there would be no guessing anymore, no mystery, suspense, or intrigue. So the author leaves it up to you whether or not he’s for-real, or just duping you. Quite often an author will mix facts and fiction together, and you don’t know which things or facts and which are fiction. This is actually the best way to use this ambiguity device. The blend of both really keeps you guessing, but I admit it’s a pretty sly and deceiving way to go – but it works!

Now you may ask me, “Why bring this up? Are you using this idiotic devise in this particular account?”

Well, to be honest with you — I’ll never tell! Why spoil all the fun? I’ll just keep you guessing!

I woke up, but found myself in that stark white cell! It was that wretched loony bin again! And it seemed so real! So I was going crazy! All this was some wild delusion. I must have  finally cracked. My wild imagination finally submerged completely into the deranged realms of schizophrenia, where I couldn’t tell the difference between reality and fantasy – otherwise known as the Outer Limits.

Ah. My laptop was even at my side on the bedside table. So they allowed me to log down my unfolding sequence of delusions as I experienced them – in my mind, a mind gone mad.

A deadpan nurse entered the room wearing a crisp white uniform.

“How are we this morning, Mr. Stark? Are we feeling chipper?”

“There is no we,” I growled. “There’s only me and my delusions.”

“Are you sure about that? What if they are real?” She was smiling weirdly. Was she playing some idiotic mind game, trying to confuse me? Was she testing my sanity –rather, my insanity?

Then she asked, “Tell me about those crazy theories and wild conspiracies again, Mr. Stark. What you’ve logged down in your laptop is most intriguing.”

I snatched up my closed laptop. “This is private property! My personal stuff! Hands off!”

She chuckled, “Sorry, Mr. Stark, but nothing is private or personal here. We gave you this laptop so you can write down your diary of events as they unfold. You know that.”

“Yeah, I guess I do.” I gave in – stupidly.

“So, tell me, Mr. Stark, has the world been dominated by evil doers yet? Is the secret government setting their sinister plans in motion yet? Has their diabolical plan worked yet? Is the Antichrist in charge yet? Is Armageddon near? I’m anxious to learn what’s going to happen next!” Her eyes grew wide and wild, and her lips formed a weird maniacal grin from ear to ear.

I shot, “What?!?!? You’re the crazy one here! I never told you anything about all that!”

“Yes you did, Mr. Stark. In your silly little blog articles. You’re trying to put fear in the hearts of billions of innocent people! You’re trying to stir up serious trouble in the world! Maybe you’re the one causing the New World Order! It’s you all along, Mr. Stark! You’re the Antichrist!” She laughed insanely as her eyes glowed red.

Then I woke up…again. I was bathed in cold sweat. I hated it when that happened. So it was just one of those insane dreams — I assumed. But my subconscious was playing head games with me apparently. And why would it do that? Was it trying to tell me something? Was it telling me I was crazy after all?

After eating a bag of pretzels and washing this down with lukewarm coffee from my thermos, the worst of breakfasts, I stood in the bushes and watched with my binoculars again, scanning the whole town, from one side to the other, over and over again. I especially kept my eye on the L and M Motel, to see when those goons would arrive.

Around noon it happened. I saw a dark vehicle driving southbound up Barstow Rd, then turned onto Mulvern Ave where Highway 18 merged into it, entering town from the east side. It was the black van! Where they had been, I wasn’t sure; any of the towns up north, or even Barstow which lie thirty some miles away. That didn’t matter – they were back now.

They trundled down Mulvern Ave, most likely returning to the L and M Motel on the west side of town. But I would cut them off first.

I jumped back in the Blazer and roared down Mesa Rd, and I knocked over the stop sign as I turned right on Foothill. I turned again and tore down Highland Rd, and leaped onto Mulvern Ave., just ahead of them. I screeched crosswise and blocked the whole road, so the black van had to stop. I jumped out, holding a shotgun, loaded, aiming it at the tinted window on the driver’s side.

“Roll it down!” I demanded.

At first, nothing happened. Then I knocked on the glass with the gun barrel.

The driver rolled it down. He looked like one of those clean shaven dark suited agents.

“I know you goons have been following me. So, here I am. So tell me, what do you want?”

The guy chuckled and shrugged, “I’ve got no clue what you’re talking about.” His partner beside him shrugged too.

“Who do you represent?” I demanded.

“Nobody. We’re just visiting.”

“You’re lying! If your group had a problem with me or my articles, why didn’t you just come up to me and discuss it in plain sight? Like civilized people, instead of skulking around in your cloak-and-dagger ways.”

The driver laughed, “Hey, you’re sounding kinda nuts.”

“I’m on to you!”

“You’re crazy, mister.”

Suddenly the driver accelerated, and made a quick u-turn, and peeled out, going eastbound along Mulvern. I cussed, considered following them, then decided against it. It would be futile at this point. I wanted to ask them if they were part of the secret government, or the Armageddon Initiative, the Illuminati, the Men in Black, or whatever. But they acted clueless. Perhaps they weren’t ready to act, or perhaps these agents just wanted to monitor me only, or confront me later. I didn’t know what their objective was. They had there chance to meet me face to face, but they acted in denial. Said I was nuts, crazy.

A sickening thought entered my mind. I could still be delusional, or schizophrenic, imagining all this. Anybody connected to this could be products of my demented imagination: John, Monica, these dark agents, Nightlight, the other anonymous contact, so on and so forth. And what about Mike Smith, who hadn’t shown his true colors yet? Or was I even imagining that people like Calvin or the Sheriff were involved? And did I imagine the heroine bricks in back of my Blazer, the black van, the tracking device, the break-in, or anything connected to this elaborate scenario?

Some days I felt certain people were after me, that all this was real, that I was discovering a huge plot – and other days, the doubt seeped in, wondering if I was losing my mind. I got back in the Blazer and returned to the cabin, feeling confused.

I decide it’s time to stop hiding from these dark agents, time to confront them. So I left the dark recesses of Area 57, jumped into the Blazer and took off down the bumpy dirt road, heading toward Mulvern. Those two goons had to be somewhere, but if they took off on some excursion for a few days, they’d be back at the L and M Motel sooner or later. I’d be waiting for them. My plan is to get right out in the open where they’ll see me. I’m tired of hiding. But first I have to find them.

I stopped at Zircon Rd, still a few miles above Mulvern. I stepped out, looking down the slope, toward Mulvern, a small town that sprawled only a couple miles from east to west. I pull out my binoculars, and scanned the town below. Hours went by and I saw no signs of anything suspicion. Not even at the L and M Motel. I didn’t see the black van down there. So where the hell were they? Where had they gone? In this desolate desert of few and far between towns where could they go off to? And Why? And when would they be back?

I told myself I was patient, that I’d wait it out. But impatience grew in my aching back and legs as I stood, or sometimes hunched down in the bushes. Or paced back and forth sometimes. But if I went back to the cabin and waited, not watching for them, I’d most likely miss them when they returned to town, so I had to keep my eyes open, I had to keep watch.

As I waited I considered what John had said, that one of his Foundation agents was here somewhere, someone I met already. But who? The Sheriff? One of his deputies? Bob Richardson the market owner? Someone else here in town? I shrugged it off for now. I considered Calvin, except the goons paid him off to trash my cabin. I even thought of Monica, but she left the desert already. So it wasn’t her. I should call her soon.

Dusk came. I fell asleep in the seat of the Blazer. I woke up way past midnight. I felt foolish to be waiting like this. But come morning, by the light of day, I was on watch again. If they were out of town, I wanted to watch till they got back. I was anxious to confront them now.

Another day John called and gave me some more fascinating info.

Stark: “Since I’ve been sucked into this whole mess, I’m willing to help out however I can.”

John: “We appreciate that. In fact, on a provisional bases, you will be a probationary associate.”

Stark: “Great! So is their hazard pay?”

John: “Only for full members.”

Stark: “Well, what can you tell me about your outfit, since you’re short-term enlisting me? Just how secret is it?”

John: “I can’t tell you much. High priority concealment of who we are and what we know keeps us secret. But due to the current circumstances, we have no choice except to bring you in under our wing, even if temporarily. So I need to swear you to secrecy.”

Stark: “My lips are hermetically sealed.”

“Good enough. I feel I can trust you. Okay, our present agency is the predecessor of an organization that was originally formed right after the USA became an independent nation, initiated by our founding fathers, so it existed for the country’s protection against conspiracies and corruption from within, which isn’t an easy task. Although its name has changed over the years, its goals are the same. Its original name was the Royal Order of Knight Protectors, which continued until the beginning of the 20^th Century, then, due to developing corruption and conspiracies, certain politicians and early New World Order formulators tried to destroy it. The balance of power shifted negatively for us around World War I when the advancing conspirators in government and the banking industry gained strength. As you may know, the Rockefellers, the Rothschilds and the Morgans began funding the government and influencing it, taking control since its great power was massive wealth – so this preliminary control tactic was just one of the first steps in the developing New World Order scheme. So our dwindling group went underground, seeming to disappear all together, but it remained in touch with certain trusted government officials, some of which were past presidents, in order to continue functioning, but in total secrecy. Currently we call our group the Phoenix Foundation, an exoteric name which conceals its real name. But we’ve been fighting against various covert operations and conspirators well over two-hundred years. And the New World Order groups are our main target now.”

Stark: “Many people think some of these dark groups are connected to the Bavarian Illuminati, even if remotely, but the other day you denied this.”

John: “There is one theory we considered, which is that this secret government is connected to the present incarnation of the old Illuminati Order in Bavaria, or that is, corrupt members who left the original group to form their own, to initiate their diabolical plots. But we have no concrete evidence for this yet – mainly because they maintain secrecy too, like any secret society will, which conceals their origins and development and plans. There may be no connection, and the whole Illuminati concept may just be a cover scheme. Although there have been conspiratorial groups plotting world takeovers throughout history, and many incarnations of these resurrected over and over again in various forms, these current world domination groups developed in the early 20^th Century, which actually explains who’s really behind the whole Third Reich and Nazism.”

Stark: “Makes sense.”

John: “Hitler was a major player in the whole New World Order plan, but then he failed.”

Stark: “But I’ve read that various secret societies could be part of this massive conspiracy — the Freemasons, the Rosicrucians, the Illuminati, and so on. Just conspiracy hype I figure. I know the Freemasons in particular were accused of various crimes and corruptions for centuries. But I doubt any validity to this.”

John: “Yes. All false accusations perpetrated by the Catholic Church and various monarchs, or early conspiracy propagators, or anyone that felt like speaking against them. Fools try to link these spiritual societies to sinister motives.”

Stark: “I’ve done research on these lines, and I’m currently working on a series of articles discussing a secret government and the New World Order, which I’ve been submitting in my blog.”

John: “We’re well aware of this, and we’ve been monitoring your blogs, and online writings in general. In spite of the in-depth information you’ve been posting, you’ve barely skimmed the surface, I’m afraid. You see, the Foundation holds secrets regarding high level knowledge that few know about.”

Stark: “Let me guess – like who’s really behind the two Kennedy assassinations.”

John: “Sorry, I can’t even respond to that. That’s high-classification data. But right now, you have to focus on the Group and their New World Order plans.”

Stark: “No problem.”

John: “You’re pissing them off with what you’ve written so far, so keep it up.”

Stark: “I can get pretty pissy too.”

John: “I hope that what you are doing is distracting them, since they’re focusing on trying to stop you because of your accusatory articles that seem to be exposing them. We have been looking for such a diversion so that we can subtly and gradually infiltrate the Armageddon Initiative, as well as some of the other groups, hopefully to expose them all and shut them down. We can’t allow them to succeed at initiating their New World Order. So keep writing your abrasive articles by all means.”

Stark: “Absolutely!”

John: “But you’re not alone, there are several other journalists doing the same as you.”

Stark: “So I’m in good company. I had a feeling I had some comrade-in-arms.”

John: “One last thing. Someone in your vicinity is one of our agents.”

Stark: “Great. I hope to meet him — or her.”

John: “You’ve already met him.”

Stark: “Who?”

John: “Sorry. I have to go.”

Well, that intriguing conversation answered a few questions, but brings up new ones too. Like who belongs to the Group? What other secret societies are a part of it? And how far back in time can they be traced? Are they truly behind Hitler and the Third Reich, or even the Kennedy assassinations? Or other countless other assassinations across the world?

Since John’s mysterious group held numerous high level classified secrets, I may never know for sure.

* * *

NOTE: I had to change the name of John’s group, so Phoenix Foundation is only a cover name. He swore me to secrecy to not reveal its real name, even if it was just their exoteric label. Double-duty secrecy here!

Just to show you I’m not being paranoid for no logical reason, I found some interesting passages in a book I’m reading, Rule By Secrecy, by Jim Marrs, a prolific conspiracy researcher. Alright, I ask you, who is the author talking about? See if you can figure it out:

“These people will connect with each other through a variety of means — international business and politics, conferences, and social gatherings, foundations, etc. — and therefore constitute a cohesive group. This group has been called by many names: the New World Order, the Committee of 300, the Illuminati, the Secret Brotherhood, or often simply ‘they.’”

Figured it out? Yes! It’s the Group! “They” are the ones who have been creeping around, harassing me, and keeping me on edge all this time. That is, this mysterious “they” have sent their agents out to make my life a living hell. Which is why I’ve isolated myself in this bomb shelter, otherwise known as Area 57.

In other pages of his book the author discusses many connected secret societies and other agencies, such as the Trilateral Commission, Council on Foreign Affairs, the Bilderberg group, Skull and Bones, and he even says there are connections in the CIA, FBI, National Security Agency, Defense Intelligence Agency, FEMA (Federal Emergency Management Agency), the Internal Revenue Service, and many more! All covertly connected in one way or another, and under the control of the huge umbrella of what some call the Group, or “They.” The more I research this crazy stuff, the more I’m convinced (if not brainwashed!) that a genuine conspiracy is unfolding by this Group, which is creating a New World Order. Alright, let’s read further what Jim Marrs is saying:

“As the goal of a New World Order moves closer to reality today, authors and researchers who are suspicious of the role of secret societies and their financial backers in government, business, and foundations feel they face a disheartening maze of obstructions in trying to bring the story to the public. Major publishers won’t publish and news agencies won’t accept or distribute stories and often ridicule such writers as ‘alarmists’ and ‘conspiracy theorists.’ Occasionally, there is even the threat of violence against investigators who dig too deep.”

Alright, this is exactly where I’m at, folks. As a researcher and journalist, I think I’m on that list. Did I dig too deep! Am I digging my own grave? If you recall, back in Sioux Falls, the black van was across the street from my house for some time as they watched me, and they bugged my phone. They caused a car accident that should have killed me. And now that I’ve snuck away and moved to the high desert, they’ve found me again and have been snooping around, harassing me again — and I often wonder if they plan to snuff me out.

Now that the New World Order cold war has a battle front right here in Mulvern (although it has many across the world) since I’ve been stirring the pot vigorously with my conspiracy articles, I almost expect “them” to confront me sooner than later and try to stop me – if not kill me, no questions asked.

Yeah, I tried to confront them, head on, stopped them in the road and threatened them with a shotgun – but they denied my accusations, if you recall. They could snuff me out at any time, but I suspect they’re waiting . . . . for the right time, for orders from HQ, for the weather to change, whatever. We’ll see.

But now that I’m in the middle of this whole freaking mess, I’m not hiding anymore. Time to take action!